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I, 



BY THE SAME AUTHOR 


{Leisure-Hour Series) 

CECIL DREEME, IVith Portrait 
JOHN BRENT 

« 

EDWIN BROTHERTOFT 

THE CANOE AND THE SADDLE 

LIFE IN THE OPEN AIR, AND 


OTHER PAPERS 


/ 




>-> 


LEISURE HOUR SERIES 


Q! 


CECIL DREEME 


BY 

THEODORE WINTHROP 

M 

AUTHOR OP “JOHN BRENT,” “EDWIN BROTHERTOPT,” ETC, 


'With Portrait and Biographical Sketch of the Author 


GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 





NEW YORK 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

187G 


Entered according to Act of Congress, In the year 1861 , by 
T I C K N O R ANT FIELDS, 

In the Clerlt’s OfHje of the District Court of the District of Massacl.usett« 


Trow’s 

Printing anu Bookbinding Co. 

I’RINTEKS, 

205-213 East \2tk St., 

NEW YORK. 


CONTENTS 


PA6I 

Biographical Sketch of the Author . . 5 

Chap. 

1. Stillfleet and his News. ... 21 

n. Chrysalis College . . . . 31 

III. Rubbish Palace . . .... 38 

IV. The Palace and its Neighbors . . 44 

V. Churm against Densdeth . . .61 

VI. Churm as Cassandra .... 81 

VII. Churm’s Story 89 

VIII. Clara Denman, dead ... 97 

IX. Locksley’s Scare Ill 

X. Overhead, without . . . . 124 

XL Overhead, within 131 

XII. Dreeme, asleep 135 

XIII. Dreeme, awake 146 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


XIV. A Mild Orgie 156 

XV. A Morning with Densdeth . .166 

XVI. Emma Denman 187 

XVII. A Morning with Cecil Dreeme . 198 
XVIII. Another Cassandra . . 214 

XIX. Can this be Love? . . . 231 

XX. A Nocturne * 239 

XXL Lydian Measures ..... 253 

XXII. A Laugh and a Look . . . 261 

XXIII. A Parting 268 

XXIV. Fame awaits Dreeme . . . 277 

XXV. Churm before Dreeme’s Picture . 288 

XXVI. Towner 299 

XXVII. Raleigh’s Revolt 313 

XXVIII. Densdeth’s Farewell . , , 320 

XXIX. Dreeme his own Interireter 333 

XXX. Densdeth’s Dark Room . . 352 


BIOGEAPHICAL SKETCH OP THE AHIHOR. 


Bt GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS. 


Theodore Winthrop’s life, like a fire long smouldering, 
suddenly blazed up into a clear, bright flame, and vanished. 
Those of us who were his friends and neighbors, by whose 
firesides he sat familiarly, and of whose life upon the pleas- 
ant Staten Island, where he lived, he was so important a 
part, were so impressed by his intense vitality, that his death 
strikes us with peculiar strangeness, like sudden winter- 
silence falling upon these humming fields of June. 

As I look along the wooded brook-side by which he used 
to come, I should not be surprised if I saw that knit, wiry, 
light figure moving with quick, firm, leopard tread over the 
grass, — the keen gray eye, the clustering fair hair, the kind, 
serious smile, the mien of undaunted patience. If you did 
not know him, you would have found his greeting a little 
constrained, — not from shyness, but from genuine modesty 
and the habit of society.^ You would have remarked that 
he was silent and observant, rather than talkative ; and 
whatever he said, however gay or grave, would have had 
the reserve of sadness upon which his whole character was 
drawn. If it were a woman who saw him for the first time, 
she would inevitably see him through a slight cloud of mis- 
apprehension ; for the man and his manner were a little at 
variance. The chance is, that at the end of five minutei 


6 


BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 


she "^ould have thought him conceited. At the end of live 
months she would have known him as one of the simplest 
and most truly modest of men. 

And he had the heroic sincerity which belongs to such 
modesty. Of a noble ambition, and sensitive to applause, — 
as every delicate nature veined with genius always is, — he 
would not provoke the applause by doing anything which, 
although it lay easily within his power, was yet not wholly 
approved by him as worthy. Many men are ambitious and 
full of talent, and when the prize does not fairly come they 
snatch at it unfairly. This was precisely what he could 
not do. He would strive and deserve ; but if the crown 
were not laid upon his head in the clear ^ight of day and by 
confession of absolute merit, he could ride to his place again 
and wait, looking with no envy, but in patient -wonder and 
with critical curiosity, upon the victors. It is this which he 
expresses in the paper in the July number of the Atlantic 
Monthly Magazine, “ Washington as a Camp,” when he says, 
“ I have heretofore been proud of my individuality, and re- 
sisted, so far as one may, all the world’s attempts to merge 
me in the mass.” 

It was this wdilch made many who knew him much, but 
not truly, feel that he was purposeless and restless. Tliey 
knew his ‘ talent, his opportunities. Why' does he not con- 
centrate ? Why does he not bring himself to bear ? He 
did not plead his ill-health ; nor would they have allowed 
the plea. The difficulty was, deeper. lie felt that he had 
shown his credentials, and they were not accepted. “ I can 
wait, I can wait,” was the answer his life made to the impa- 
tience of his friends; 

We are all fond of saying that a man of real gifts will fit 
himself to the work of any time ; and so he will. But it is 
not necessarily to the first thing that offers. There is always 
latent in civilised soci 'ty a certain amount of what mav bif 


OF THE AUTHOR. 


7 


called Sir Philip Sidney genius, which will seem elegant and 
listless and aimless enough until the congenial chance ap- 
pears. A plant may grow in a cellar ; but it will flower only 
under the due sun and warmth. Sir Philip Sidney was but 
a lovely possibility, until he went to be Governor of Flush- 
ing. What else was our friend, until he went to the war ? 

The age of Elizabeth did not monopolize the heroes, and 
they are always essentially the same. When, for instance, 
I read in a letter of Hubert Languet’s to Sidney, “ You are 
not over-cheerful by nature,” or when, in another, he speaks 
of the portrait that Paul Veronese painted of Sidney, and 
says, “ The painter has represented you sad and thought- 
ful,” I can believe that he is speaking of my neighbor. Or 
when I remember what Sydney wrote to his younger brother. 
Being a gentleman born, you purpose to furnish your- 
self with the knowledge of such things as may be serviceable 
to your country and calling,” — or what he wrote to Lan- 
guet, — “Our Princes are enjoying too deep a slumber: I can- 
not think there is any man possessed of common under- 
standing who does not see to what these rough storms are 
driving by which all Christendom has been agitated now 
these many years,” — I seem to hear my friend, as he used to 
talk on the Sunday evenings when he sat in this huge cane- 
chair at my side, in which I saw him last, and in which I shall 
henceforth always see him. 

. Nor is it unfair to remember just here that he bore one 
of the few really historic names in this country. He never 
spoke of it ; but we should all have been sorry not to feel 
that he was glad to have sprung straight from that second 
John Wlnthrop who was the first Governor of Connecticut, 
the younger sister colony of 3Iassachusetts Bay, — the John 
Winthrop who obtained the charter of privileges for his 
colony. Ho^v clearly the quality of the man has been 
transmitted ! How brightly the old name shines out again t 


8 


BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 


He was born in New Haven on the 2 2d September, 
1828, and was a grave, delicate, rather precocious child 
He was at school only in New Haven, and entered Yale 
College just as he was sixteen. The pure, manly morality 
which was the substance of his character, and his brilliant 
exploits of scholarship, made him the idol of his college 
friends, who saw in him the promise of the splendid career 
which the fond faith of students allots to the favorite class- 
mate. He studied for the Clark scholarship, and gained it ; 
and his name, in the order of time, is first upon the roll of 
that foundation. For the Berkeleian scholarship he and 
another were judged equal, and, drawing lots, the other 
gained the scholarship ; but they divided the honor. 

In college his favorite studies were Greek and mental 
philosophy. He never lost the scholarly taste and habit. 
A wide reader, he retained knowledge with little effort, and 
often surprised his friends by the variety of his information. 
Yet it was not strange, for he was born a scholar. His 
mother was the great-granddaughter of old President Ed- 
wards; and among his relations upon the maternal side, 
Winthrop counted six Presidents of colleges. Perhaps also 
in this learned descent we may find the secret of his 
early seriousness. Thoughtful and self-criticising, he was 
peculiarly sensible to religious influences, under which his 
criticism easily became self-accusation, and his sensitive 
seriousness grew sometimes morbid. He would have studied 
for the ministry or a professorship, upon leaving college, 
except for his failing health. 

In the later days, when I knew him, the feverish ardor 
of the first religious impulse was past. It had given place 
to a faith much too deep and sacred to talk about, yet 
holding him always with serene, steady poise in the purest 
region of life and feeling. There was no franker or more 
sympathetic companion for young men of his own age thar 


OF THE AUTHOR. 


9 


lie ; but bis conversation fell from bis lips as unsullied as bis 
soul. 

He graduated in 1848, when be was twenty years old; 
and for the sake of bis health, which was seriously shat- 
tered, — ail ill-health that colored all his life, — he set out 
upon his travels. He went first' to England, spending much 
time at Oxford, where he made pleasant acquaintances, and 
walkin" through Scotland. He then crossed over to France 
and Germany, exploring Switzerland vefy thoroughly upon 
foot, — once or twice escaping great dangers among the 
mountains, — and pushed on to Italy and Greece, still walk- 
ing much of the way. In Italy he made the acquaintance 
of Mr. W. H. AspinAvall, of New York, and upon his return 
became tutor to IVIr. Aspinwall’s son. He presently accom- 
panied his pupil and a nephew of Mr. Aspinwall, who were 
going to a school in Switzerland ; and after a second short 
tour of six months in Europe he returned to New York, 
and entered Mr. Aspinwall’s counting-house. In the em- 
ploy of the Pacific Steamship Company he went to Panama 
and resided for about two years, travelling, and often ill of 
the fevers of the country. Before his return he travelled 
through California and Oregon, — went to Vancouver’s 
Island, Puget Sound, and the Hudson Bay Company’s sta- 
tion there. At the Dalles he was smitten with the small- 
pox, and lay ill for six weeks. He often spoke with the 
warmest gratitude of the kind care that was taken of him 
there. But when only partially recovered he plunged olf 
again into the wilderness. At another time he fell very ill 
upon the plains, and lay down, as he supposed, to die ; but 
after some time struggled up and on again. 

He returned to the counting-room, but, unsated Avith 
adventure, joined the disastrous expedition of Lieutenant 
Strain. During the time he remained Avith it his health 
was still more weakened, and he came home again in 1854 

I * 


10 


lilOGRAPHlCAL SKETCH 


In the following year he studied law and was admitted t*i 
the bar. In 1856 he entered heartily into the Fremont 
campaign, and from the strongest conviction. lie went 
into some of the dark districts of Pennsylvania and spoke 
incessantly. The roving life and its picturesque episodes, 
with the earnest conviction which inspired him, made the 
sammer and autumn exciting and pleasant. The folloAving 
year he went to St. Louis to practise law. The climate was 
unkind to him, aTnd he returned and began the practice 
in New York. But he could not be a lawyer. His health 
was too uncertain, and his tastes and ambition allured him 
elsewhere. Ills mind was brimming with the results of 
observation. His fancy was alert and inventive, and he 
wrote tales and novels. At the same time he delijrhted to 
haunt the studio of his friend Church, the painter, and 
watch day by day the progress of his picture, the Heart of 
the Andes. It so fired his imagination that he wrote a 
description of it, in which, as if rivalling the tropical and 
tangled richness of the picture, he threw together such 
heaps and masses of gorgeous words that the reader was 
dazzled and bewildered. 

The wild campaigning life was always a secret passion 
with him. His stories of travel were so graphic and warm, 
that I remember one evening, after w.e had been tracing 
upon the map a route he had taken, and he had touched 
the whole region into life with his description, my younger 
bi-other, who had sat by and listened with wide eyes all the 
evening, exclaimed with a sigh of regretful satisfaction, as 
the door closed upon our story-teller, “ It ’s as good as Rob- 
inson Crusoe ! ” Yet, with all his fondness and fitness for 
that kind of life, or indeed any active administrative func- 
tion, his literary ambition seemed to be the deepest and 
«troiigest. 

He had always been writing. In college and upon hit 


OF THE AUTHOR. 


11 


travels he kept diaries ; and he has left behind him several 
aovels, tales, sketches of travel, and journals. The first 
published writing of his which is well known is his descrip- 
tion, in the June (1861) number of the Atlantic Monthly 
Magazine, of the March of the Seventh Regiment of New 
5fork to Washington. It was charming by its graceful, 
sparkling, crisp, off-hand dash and ease. But it is only the 
practised hand that can “ dash off” effectively. Let any 
9ther clever member of the clever regiment, who has never 
written, try to dash off the story of a day or a week in the 
life of the regiment, and he will see that the wri'ter did that 
little thing well because he had done large things carefully. 
Yet, amid all the hurry and brilliant bustle of the articles, 
the author is, as he was in the most bustling moment of the 
life they described, a spectator, an artist. He looks on at 
himself and the scene of which he is part. He is willing to 
merge his individuality ; but he does not merge it, for he 
could not. 

So, wandering, hoping, trying, waiting, thirty-two years 
of his life went by, and they left him true, sympathetic, 
patient. The sharp private griefs that sting the heart so 
deeply, and leave a little poison behind, did not spare him. 
But he bore everything so bravely, so silently, — often silent 
for a whole evening in the midst of pleasant talkers, but not 
impertinently sad, nor ever sullen, — that we all loved him 
a little more at such times. The ill-health from which he 
always suffered, and a flower-like delicacy of temperament, 
the ’ yearning desire to be of some service in the world, 
coupled with the curious, critical introspection which marks 
every sensitive and refined nature and paralyzes action, 
overcast his life and manner to the common eye with pen- 
siveness and even sternness. He wrote verses in which his 
heart seems to exhale in a sigh of sadness. But he was not 
in the least a sentimentalist. The womanly grace of ten> 


12 


BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 


peranient merely enhanced the unusual manliness of hit 
character and impression. It was like a delicate carnation 
upon the cheek of a robust man. For his humor was ex- 
uberant. He seldom laughed loud, but his smile was 
and api)reciative. Then the range of his sympathie 
so large, that he enjoyed every kind of life and persoi 
was everywhere at home. In walking and riding, in 
ing and running, in games out of doors and in, no one i ^ 
all in the neighborhood was so expert, so agile as he. i^or, 
above all things, he had what we Yankees call faculty, — 
the knack of doing everything. If he rode with a neighbor 
who was a good horseman, Theodore, who was a Centaur, 
when he mounted, would put any horse at any gate or 
fence ; for it did not occur to him that he could not do 
whatever was to be done. Often, after writing for a few 
hours in the morning, he stepped out of doors, and, from pure 
love of the fun, leaped and turned summersaults on the 
grass, before going up to town. In walking about the island, 
he constantly stopped by the road-side fences, and, grasping 
the highest rail, swung himself swiftly, and neatly over and 
back again, resuming the walk and the talk without delay. 

I do not wish to make him too much a hero. “ Death,” 
says Bacon, “openeth the gate to good fame.” When a 
neighbor dies, his form and quality appear clearly, as if he 
had been dead a thousand years. Then we see what we 
only felt before. Heroes in history seem to us poetic be- 
cause they are there. But if we should tell the simple 
truth of some of our neighbors, it would sound like poetry. 
W^inthrop was one of the men who represent the manly 
and poetic qualities that always exist around us, — not great 
genius, which is ever salient, but the fine fibre of manhood 
that makes the worth of the race. 

Closely engaged with his literary employments, and more 
Quiet than ever, he took less active part in the last election 


OF THE AUTHOR. 


n 


But when the menace of treason became an aggressive act, 
lie saw very clearly the inevitable necessity of arms. AVe 
all talked of it constantly, — watching the news, — chafing 
the sad necessity of delay, which was sure to confuse 
' *n opinion and alienate sympathy, as has proved to bo 
‘^ase. As matters advanced and the war-cloud rolled 
f licker and blacker, he looked at it with the secret 
su .-Qaction that war for such a cause opened his career both 
as ' hinker and actor. The admirable coolness, the prompt- 
ness, the cheerful patience, the heroic ardor, the intelligence, 
the tough experience of campaigning, the profound con- 
viction that the cause was in truth “ the good old cause,” 
which was now to come to the death-grapple with its old 
enemy, Justice against Injustice, Order against Anarchy, — 
all these should now have their turn, and the wanderer 
and waiter “settle himself” at last. 

AVe took a long walk together on the Sunday that brought 
the news of the capture of Fort Sumter. He was thoroughly 
alive with a bright, earnest forecast of his part in the com- 
ing work. Returning home with me, he sat until late in 
the evening talking with an unwonted spirit, saying play- 
fully, I remember, that, if his friends would only give him* 
a horse, he would ride straight to victory. Especially he 
wished that some competent person would keep a careful 
record of events as they passed ; “ for we are making our 
history,” he said, “ hand over hand.” He sat quietly in the 
great chair while he spoke, and at last rose to go. AVe 
went together to the door, and stood for a little while upon 
the piazza, where we had sat peacefully through so many 
golden summer-hours. The last hour for as had come, but 
we did not know it. AVe shook hands, and he left me, 
passing rapidly along the brook-side under the trees, and so 
in the soft s})ring starlight vanished from my sight forever. 
The next morning came the President’s proclamation. 


14 


BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 


Wintl.rop went immediately to town and ( nrolled himself 
in the artillery corps of the Seventh Regiment. During 
the two or three following days he was very busy and very 
happy. On Friday afternoon, the 19th of April, 18G1, 1 
stood at the corner of Courtland Street and saw the regi- 
ment as it marched away. Two days before, I had seen 
the Massachusetts troops going down the same street. Dur- 
ing the day the news had come that they were already 
engaged, that some were already dead in Baltimore. And 
the Seventh, as they went, blessed and wept over by a 
great city, went, as we all believed, to terrible battle. 
The setting sun in a clear April sky shone full up the street. 
Mothers’ eyes glistened at the windows upon the glistening 
bayonets of their boys below. I knew that Winthrop and 
other dear friends were there, but I did not see them. I 
saw only a thousand men marching like one hero. The 
music beat and rang and clashed in the air. Marching to 
death or victory or defeat, it mattered not. They marched 
for Justice, and God was their captain. 

From that moment he has told his own story until he 
went to Fortress Monroe, and was made acting military 
secretary and aid by General Butler. Before he went, he 
wrote the most copious and gayest letters from the camp. 
He was thoroughly aroused, and all his powers happily at 
play. In a letter to me soon after his arrival in Washing- 
ton, he says :■ — 

“ I see no present end to this business. We must conquer 
the South. Afterward we must be prepared to do its police 
in its own behalf, and in behalf of its black population, 
whom this war must, without precipitation, emancipate. 
We must hold the South as the metropolitan police holda 
New York. All this is inevitable. Now I wish to enroll 
myself at once in the Police of the Nation, and foi ' life, if 
the nation will take me. I do not see that I can £'^it my 


OF THE AUTHOR. 


15 


self — experience and character — to anymore useful use 
INly experience in this short campaign with the Sev- 
enth assures me that volunteers are for one purpose and 
regular soldiers entirely another. We want regular soldiers 
for the cause of order in these anarchical countries, and we 
want men in command who, though they may be valuable 
6s temporary satraps or proconsuls to make liberty possible 
where it is now impossible, will never under any circum- 
stances be disloyal to Liberty, will alw'ays oppose any scheme 
of any one to constitute a military government, and will be 
ready, when the time comes, to imitate Washington. We 

must think of these things, and prepare for them 

Love to all the dear friends This trip has been all 

a lark to an old tramper like myself.” 

Later he writes : — 

“ It is the loveliest day of fullest spring. An aspen under 
the window whispers to me in a chorus of all its leaves, and 
when I look out, every leaf turns a sunbeam at me. I am 
writing in Viele’s quarters in the villa of Somebody Stone, 
upon whose place or farm we are encamped. The man 
who built and set down these four great granite pillars in 
front of his house, for a carriage-porch, had an eye or two 
for a fine site. This seems to be the finest possible about 
Washington. It is a terrace called Meridian Hill, two miles 
north of Pennsylvania Avenue. The house commands the 
vista of the Potomac, all the plain of the city, and a charm- 
ing lawn of delicious green, with oaks of first dignity just 
coming into leaf. It is lovely Nature, and the spot has 
snatched a grace from Art. The grounds are laid out after 
a fashion, and planted with shrubbery. The snowballs are 

at their snowballiest Have you heard or — how 

many times have you used the simile of some one. Bad-muss 
or Cadmus, or another hero, who sowed the dragon’s teeth, 
and they came up dragoons a hundred-fold and infantry 


16 


BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 


a thousand-fold ? Nil admirari is, of course, niy frame ol 
mind ; but I own astonishment at the crop of soldiers, 
They must ripen awhile, perhaps, before they are to be 
named quite soldiers. Ripening takes care of itself ; and 
by the harvest-time they will be ready to cut down. 

“ I find that the men best informed about the South do 
not anticipate much severe fighting. Scott’s Fabian policy 
will demoralize their armies. If the people do not bother 
the great Cunctator to death before he is ready to move to 
assured victory, he will make defeat impossible. Meanwhile 
there will be enough outwork going on, like those neat jobs 
in Missouri, to keep us all interested Know, O com- 

rade, that I am already a corporal, — an acting corporal, 
selected by our commanding officer for my general effect 
of pipe-clay, my rapidity of heel and toe, my present arms, 
etc., but liable to be ousted by suffrage any moment. Quod 

faustum sit, I had already been introduced to the 

Secretary of War I called at ’s and saw, with 

two or three others, on the sofa. Him my prophetic 

soul named my uncle Abe But in my uncle’s house 

are many nephews, and whether nepotism or my transcen- 
dent merit will prevail we shall see. I have fun, — I get 
experience, — I see much, — it pays. Ah, yes 1 But in 
these fair days of May I miss my Staten Island. War stirs 
the pulse, but it wounds a little all the time. 

“ Compliment for me Tib [a little dog] and the Wisterias 

— also the mares and the billiard-table. Ask to 

give you t’ other lump of sugar in my behalf. Should 

• return, say that I regret not being present with an 

unpremeditated compliment, as thus, — ‘ Ah ! the first rose 

of summer ! ’ I will try to get an enemy’s button for 

, should the enemy attack. If the Seventh returns 

presently, I am afraid I shall be obliged to return with thenj 
for a time. But I mean to see this job through, somehow. 


OF THE AUTHOR. 


17 


In such an airy, sportive vein he wrote, with the firm 
purpose and the distinct thought visible under the sparkle 
Before the regiment left Washington, as he has recorded, 
he said good-by and went down the bay to Fortress Mon- 
roe. Of his unshrinking and sprightly Industry, his good 
head, his warm heart, and cool hand, as a soldier, General 
]lutlei' has given precious testimony to his family. “ I loved 
him as a brother,” the General writes of his young aid. 

The last days of his life at Fortress Monroe were doubt- 
less also the happiest. His energy and enthusiasm, and 
kind, winning ways, and the deep satisfaction of feeling 
that all his gifts could now be used as he would have them, 
showed him and his friends that his day had at length 
dawned. He was especially interested in the condition and 
fate of the slaves who escaped from the neighboring region 
and sought refuge at the fort. He had never for an instant 
forgotten the secret root of the treason which was desolatinj/ 
the land with war ; and in his view there would be no peace 
until that root was destroyed. In his letters written from 
the fort he suggests plans of relief and comfort for the 
refugees ; and one of his last requests was to a lady in New 
York for clothes for these poor pensioners. They were 
promptly sent, but reached the fort too late. 

As I look over these last letters, which gush and throb 
with the fulness of his activity, and are so tenderly streaked 
with touches of constant affection and remembrance, vet 
are so calm and duly mindful of every detail, I do not think 
with an elder friend, in whom the wisdom of years has only 
deepened sympathy for all generous youthful impulse, of 
Virgil’s Marcellus, “ Heu, miserande puer ! ” but I recall 
rather, still haunted by Philip Sidney, what he wrote, just 
before his death, to his father-in-law, Walsingham, — “I 
think a wise and constant man ought never to grieve while 
he doth play, as a man may say, his own part truly.” 

B 


18 


BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 


The sketches of the campaign in Virginia, which Winthrop 
hc.fl commenced in the Atlantic iSIonthly Magazine, would 
have been continued, and have formed an invaluable me- 
moir of the places, the men, and the operations of which he 
was a witness and a part. As a piece of vivid pictorial 
description, which gives the spirit as well as the spectacle, 
his “Washington as a Camp” is masterly. He knew not 
only what to see and to describe, but what to think ; so that 
in his papers you are not at the mercy of a multitudinous 

mass of facts, but understand their value and relation. 

• • • • • 

The disastrous day of the 10th of June, at Great Bethel, 
need not be described here. It is already written with 
tears and vain regrets in our history. It is useless to pro- 
long the debate as to where the blame of the defeat, if 
blame there were, should rest. But there if an impression 
somewhat prevalent that Wlnthrop planned che expedition, 
which is incorrect. As military secretary o^' the command- 
ing general, he made a memorandum of tlK> outline of the 
plan as it had been finally settled. Precisely what that 
memorandum (which has been published) was, he explains 
in the last letter he wrote, a few hours before leaving the 
fort. He says : “ If I come back safe, I will send you 
my notes of the plan of attack, part made up from the 
General’s hints, part my own fancies.” This defines 
exactly his responsibility. His position as aid and militarv 
secretary, his admirable qualities as adviser under the cir- 
cumstances, and his personal friendship fi)’* the General, 
brought him Intimately into the council of war. He em- 
barked in the plan all the interest of a brave soldier con- 
templating his first battle. ' He probably made suggestioiis 
some of which were adopted. The expeditw.^n ^ras the 
first move from Fort IMpnroe, to whi.cn the .ountrv had 
been long looking in expectation. Thes*. wtre the reason/ 


Ot' THE AUTHOR. 


19 


ivhy he felt so peculiar a responsibility for its success ; and 
after the melancholy events of the earlier part of the day, 
he saw that its fortunes could be retrieved only by a dash 
of heroic enthusiasm. Fired himself, he sought to kindle 
others. For one moment that brave, inspiring form is 
plainly visible to his whole country, rapt and calm, standing 
upon the log nearest the enemy’s battery, the mark of their 
sharpshooters, the admiration of their leaders, waving his 
sword, cheering his fellow-soldiers with his bugle voice of 
victory, — yoling, brave, beautiful, for one moment erect 
and glowin" in the wild whirl of battle, the next falling 
forward toward the foe, dead, but triumphant. 

On the 19th of April, 1861, he left the armory-door of the 
Seventh, with his hand upon a howitzer; on the 21st of 
June his body lay upon the same howitzer at the same 
door, wrapped in the flag for which he gladly died as the 
symbol of human freedom. And so, drawn by the hands 
of young men lately strangers to him, but of whose bravery 
and loyalty he had been the laureate, and who fitly mourned 
him who had honored them, with long, pealing dirges and 
muffled drums, he moved forward. 

Yet such was the electric vitality of this friend of ours, 
that those of us who followed him could only think of him 
as approving the funeral pageant, not the object of it, but 
still the spectator and critic of every scene in which he was 
a part. We did not think of him as dead. We never shall 
In the moist, warm midsummer morning, he was alert, alive, 
mmortal. 


CECIL DREEME 


CHAPTER I. 

STILLFLEET AND HIS NEWS. 


Home ! 

Tlie Arago landed me at midnight in mill- 
winter. It was a dreary night. I drove for- 
lornly to my hotel. The town looked mean and 
foul. The first omens seemed unkindly. My 
spirits sank full fathom five into Despond. 

But bed on shore was welcome after my berth 
on board the steamer. I was glad to be in a 
room that did not lurch or wallow, and could 
hold its tongue. I could sleep, undisturbed by 
moaning and creaking woodwork, forever threat- 
ening wreck in dismal refrain. 

It was late next morning when a knock awoke 
me. I did not say, “Entrez,” or “Herein.” 

Some fellows adopt those idioms after a week 
in Paris or a day in Heidelberg, and then apol- 
ogize, — “We travellers quite lose our mother 
tongue, you know.” 


22 


CECIL DREEME. 


“ Come in,” said I, glad to use the veriiac* 
ular. 

A Patrick entered, brandishing a clothes-hroom 
as if it were a shillalah splintered in a shindy. 

“ A jontlemin wants to see yer honor,” said he. 

A gentleman to see me ! Who can it be ? I 
asked myself. Not Densdeth already ! No, he 
is probably also making a late morning of it after 
our rough voyage. I fear I should think it a lit- 
tle ominous if he appeared at the threshold of my 
home life, as my first friend in America. Bah ! 
Why should I have superstitions about Dens- 
deth ? Our intimacy on board will not continue 
on shore. What ^s Hecuba to me, or I to Hecu- 
ba?” 

“ A jontlemin to see yer honor,” repeated the 
Pat, with a peremptory flourish of his weapon. 

“ What name, Patrick ? ” 

‘‘ I misremember the name of him, yer honor. 
He ’s a wide-awake jontlemin, with three mus- 
tasshes, — two on his lip, and one at the pint of 
liis chin.” 

Can it be Harry Stillfleet ? I thought. He 
cannot help being wide-awake. He used to wear 
his board d la three-moustache mode. His ap- 
pearance as my first friend would be a capital 
omen. “ Show him up, Pat ! ” said I. 

“ He shows himself up,” said a frank, electric 
'^oicc. ‘‘ Here he is, wide-awake, three mous- 


CECIL DREEME. 


28 


laches, first friend, capital omen. Hail Colum- 
bia ! beat the drums ! Robert Bjng, old boy, 
how are you ? ” 

Harry Stillfleet, old boy, how are you ? ” 

“ I am an old boy, and hope you are so too.’^ 

“ I trust so. It is the best thing that can bo 
said of a full-grown man.” 

‘‘ I saw your name on the hotel book,” Still- 
fleet resumed. “ Rushed in to say, ‘ How d’ ye 
do ? ’ and ‘ Good-bye ! ’ I ’m off to-day. Any 
friends out in the Arago ? ” 

No friends. A few acquaintances, — and 
Densdeth.” 

‘‘ Name Densdeth friend, and I cut you bing- 
bang ! ” 

What ! Densdeth, the cleverest man I have 
ever met ? ” 

“ The same.” 

‘‘ Densdeth, handsome as Alcibiades, or per- 
haps I should say Absalom, as he is Hebrew- 
ish ? ” 

‘‘ That very Alcibiades, — Absalom, — Dens- 
deth.” 

‘‘ Densdeth, the brilliant, the accomplished, — 
who fascinates old and young, who has been 
everywhere, who has seen everytliing, who knows 
the world de 'profnndh^ — a very Midas with the 
gold touch, but without the ass’s ears ? Dens- 
deth, tlie potent millionnaire ? ” 


24 


CECIL DREEMK. 


Yes, Byng. And lie can carry a great m »ny 
more adjectives. He has qualities enough to 
make a regiment of average men. But my 
friends must be built of other stuff.” 

“ So must mine, to tell the truth, Harry. But 
he attracts me strangely. His sardonic humor 
s-uits one side of my nature.” 

‘‘ The cynical side ? ” 

“ If 1 have one. The voyage would have beep 
a bore without him. I had never met and hardly 
heard of him before ; but we became intimate at 
once. He has shown me much attention.” 

No doubt. He knows men. You ha^ e a 
good name. You are to be somebody on your 
own account, we hope. Besides, Densdeth wa? 
probably aware of your old friendship with the 
Denmans.” 

“ He never spoke of them.” 

Naturally. He did not wish to talk tragedy.” 

“ Tragedy ! What do you mean ? ” 

“ Y'ou have not heard the story of Densdeth 
and Clara Denman ! ” cried Stillfleet, in surprise. 

“ No. Shut up in Leipsic, and crowding my 
studies to come home, I have not heard a word 
of New York gossip for six months.” 

“ This is graver than gossip, Byng. It hap- 
pened less than three months ago. Densdeth 
was to have married Clara Denman.” 

‘‘ The cynical Densdeth marry that strange 
child ! ” 


CECIL DREEME. 


25 


“ You forget your ten years’ absence. The 
strange child grew up a noble woman.” 

“ Not a beauty, — that I cannot conceive.” 

“ No ; but a genius. Once in a century Na- 
ture sends such a brave, earnest, tender, indig- 
nant soul on this low earth. All the men of 
genius were in love with her, except myself. 
But Densdeth, a bad genius, seemed to have won 
lier. The wedding-day was fixed, cards out, 
great festivities ; you know how a showy man 
like Denman would seize the occasion for splen- 
dor. One night she disappeared without sign. 

Tliree days afterward she was floated upon the 

• 

beach down the bay, — drowned, poor thing ! ” 

“ What ! ” cried I, “ Clara Denman, my weird 
little playmate ! Dead ! Drowned ! I did not 
imagine how tenderly I had remembered her.” 

“ I was not her lover,” said Harry, “ only a 
friend ; but the world has seemed a mean and 
lonely place since she passed away so cruelly.” 

The mercurial fellow was evidently greatly 
affected. 

She had that fine exaltation of nature,” 
continued he, ‘‘ which frightens weak people. 
They said her wild, passionate moods brought 
her to the verge of madness.” 

‘‘ A Sibylline soul.” 

“Yes, a Sibyl who must see and know and 
suffer. H^r friends gave out that she lia/i ac- 
2 


26 


CECIL DREEME. 


tually gone mad with a fever, and so, wliile hei 
nurse was asleep, she stole out, erred about the 
city, fell into the river, and was drowned.’’ 

Not suicide ! ” 

“ Never ! with such a healthy soul. Yet some 
people do not hesitate to say that she drowned 
herself rather tlian be forced to marry Dens- 
deth.” 

‘‘ These are not the days of forced marriages.” 

“ Moral pressure is more despotic than physi- 
cal force. I fancy our old friend Churm may 
think there was tyranny in the business, though 
he never speaks of it. You know he was a sup- 
plementary father and guardian of those ladies, 
lie was absent when it all happened.” 

And the Denmans, — how do they seem to 
bear it ? ” 

“ Mr. Denman was sadly broken at first. I 
used to meet him, walking about, leaning feebly 
oil Densdeth’s arm, looking like a dead man, or 
one just off the rack. But he is proud as Luci- 
fer. He soon was himself again, prouder than 
before.” 

And Emma Denman ? ” 

“ I have had but one glimpse of her since the 
younger sister’s death. Her beauty is signally 
heightened by mourning.” 

“ Such a tragedy must terribly blight her 
life. Will they see me, do you think ? 1 


CECIL DREEME. 


27 


sliuiild like to offer my sympathy, for old friend' 
ship’s sake.” 

“ As an old friend, they will see you, of cniirse. 
111 fact, conspicuous people, like the Denmans, 
cannot long shelter themselyes behind a sorrow. 
But come, old fellow, I haye been talking sol- 
emnly long enough. Tell me about yourself. 
Come home ripe ? Wild oats sowed ? Ready 
to giye us a lift with ciyilization ? ” 

“ Ripe, I hope. Not raw, as I went. Nor 
rotten, as some fellows return. Wild oats ? I 
keep a few handfuls still in my bag, for home 
sowing. As to ciyilization ; let me get my pou 
slo and my handspike set, and I will lieaye with 
a will, lift or no.” 

“ Suppose you state your case in full, as if 
you were a clown in the ring, or a herd on' the 
stage.” 

I had been dressing while he talked. ^ly 
toilette was nearly done, I struck an attitude 
and replied, “ My name is Robert Byng, ‘ as I 
sailed.’ ” 

‘‘ Name short, and with a good crack to it ; 
man long and not whipper-snapper. Name dis- 
tinguished ; bearer capable. State your age, 
Byng the aforesaid.” 

“ Twenty-six.” 

‘‘The ])risoner confesses to twenty-six. The 
judge in the name of the American people d& 


28 


CECIL DREEME. 


mands, ‘ Why then have n’t you been five years 
at the bar, or ten years at the desk ? Why are 
you not in command of a clipper ship, or in ' 
Congress, or driving an omnibus, oi clearing a 
farm ? Where is your door-plate ? Where is 
your wife ? What school does your eldest son 
go to ? Where is your mark on the nineteenth 
century ? ’ ” 

“ Bah, Harry ! Don’t bore me with your Young 
Americanism ! I know it is not sincere. Let 
me mature, before you expect a man’s work 
of me ! ” 

“ The culprit desires to state,” says Stillfleet, 
as if he were addressing an audience, “ that 
he was born to a fortune' and a life of idle- 
ness and imbecility, that he would gladly be 
imbecile and idle now, like iious autres ; but 
that losing his parents and most of his money 
at an unsophisticated age, while in Europe, he 
consulted the Oracle how he should make his 
living. ‘ What is that burn on your thumb ? ’ 
asked the Oracle. ‘ Phosphorus,’ replied Master 
Bob. ‘ How came that hole in your sleeve ? ’ 
Oracle inquires. ‘Nitric acid,’ Byng responds. 

‘ It was the cat that scratched your face ? ’ says 
Oracle. ‘ No,’ answers the youth, ‘ my retort 
burst before it was half full of gas.’ ‘ Phosplio- 
rus on your thumb,’ Oracle sums up, ‘ nitric 
icid on your sleeve, and your face dawed with 


CECIL DREEME. 


29 


gas explosions, — there is only one thing for you 
to do. Be a chemist ! ’ Which he became. Is 
that a straight story, Byng?” 

“ Near enough ! ” said I, laughing at mj 
friend’s rattling history of my life. 

“ And here lie is, fellow-citizens,” Stillflcct 
continued. ‘‘ He has seen the world and had 
his fling in Paris, where he picked up a little 
chemistry and this half-cynical manner and 
half-sceptical method, which you remark. Ho 
has also got a small supply of science and an 
abundance of dreaminess and fatalism in Ger- 
many. But he is a fine fellow, with a good 
complexion, not dishonest blue eyes, not spoilt 
in any way, and if xVmerica punishes him prop- 
erly, and puts his nose severely to the grind- 
stone, he may turn out respectable. I ’ll offer 
you three to two, Byng, the Devil don’t get 
you. Speak quick, or I shall want to bet even.” 

“You rascal!” said I. “I would^o at you 
with an analysis after the same fashion, if I were 
not too hungry. Come down and breakfast.” 

“ Here is a gentleman from Sybaris ! ” cried 
Stillfleet. “ ‘ Come and breakfast 1 ’ says he, 
lifting himself out of his bed of rose-leaves at 
mid-day. Why, man I I breakfasted three hours 
ago. I ’vc been up to the Reservoir and down 
to the Exchange and over to Brooklyn since. 
That ’s the style you have to learn, twenty thou* 


30 


CECIL DREEME 


sand miles an hour, hurrali boys! go ahead! 
^ Ell avaiit, maiTche ! ’ ‘ MariTrche ! ’ Yes ; I 
took breakfast three hours ago, — and a stout 
one, — to fortify me for the toil of packing to go 
to Wasliington. But 1 ’ll sit by and check yciir 
come-ashore appetite.” 


CHAPTER II. 


CHRYSALIS COLLEGE. 

Stillfleet escorted me down to the long, 
desolate dining-room of mj hotel, the Cliuzzle- 
wit. 

The great Chiizzlewit dined there on -his visit 
to America, and damned his dinner with such 
fine irony, that the proprietor thought himself 
complimented, and re-baptized his hotel. 

“ Here you are,” said my friend, at a crack 
house on the American plan. You can break- 
fast on fried beefsteak, hard eggs, cafe au delay, 
soggy toast, flannel cakes, blanket cakes, and 
wash-leather cakes. You can dine on mock 
soup, boiled porpoise, beef in the raw or in the 
chip, watery vegetables, quoit pics, and can have 
your choice at two dollars a bottle of twelve 
kinds of wine, all mixed in the same cellar, and 
labelled in the same shop. You can sup on 
soused tea, dusty s})ongc-cakc, and Patrick d 
discretion. How do you like the bill of fare ? ” 

“ Marine appetites are not discriminating. 
But, Harry,” 1 continued, when T had ordered 


B2 


CECIL DREEME. 


my breakfast, ‘‘ you spoke of going to Wasliing 
ton. I thought only raff — Congressmen, con- 
tractors, and tide-waiters — went there.’’ 

Civilization makes its missionaries acquainted 
with strange lodgings. They are building a big 
abortion of a new Capitol. I go, as an architect, 
to expunge a little of the Goth and the Vandal 
out of their sham-classic plans.” 

‘‘ Beware ! Reform too soon, and you risk 
ostracism. But before you go, advise me. 
Where am I to live ? Evidently not here at 
the Chuzzlewit. Here the prices are large, and 
the rooms little. I must have a den of my own, 
where I can swing a cat, a longish cat.” 

Why not take my place off my hands ? It 
is big enough to swing a royal Bengal tiger in. 
I meant to lock it up, but you shall occupy and 
enjoy, if you like. It ’s a grand chance, old 
fellow. Tlicre ’s not such another Rubbish Pal- 
ace in America.” 

“ Excellent ! ” said I. “ But will you trust 
me wdtli your plunder ? ” 

‘‘ Will I trust you ? Have n’t we been brats 
together, lads together, men together ? ” 

‘‘ We have.” 

‘‘ Have n’t we been comrades in robbing or- 
chards, mobbing tutors, spoiling the Egyptians 
of mummies, pillaging the Tuileries in ’48. 
Have n’t we been the historic friends, Demon 


CECIL DREEME. 33 

and Pythagoras, — no, Damon and Pythias ? 
Answer me that I ” 

We have.” 

“ Well, then, enter my shop, studio, palace, 
and use and abuse my tools, rubbish, valuables, 
as you like. Keally, Byng, it will be a great 
favor if you will fill my quarters, and keep down 
the rats with my rat rifle, while I am in Wash- 
ington trying to decorate the Bepresentative 
Chamber so that it will shame blackguards to 
silence.” 

“Now,” said I, after a pause, and a little stern 
champing over a tougli Chuzzlewit chop, “ all 
ready, Harry ; conduct me to your den.” 

We left the Chuzzlewit by the side door on 
Mannering Place, and descended from Broadway 
as far as Ailanthus Square. On the* corner, 
fronting tliat mean, shabby enclosure, Stillfleet 
pointed out a huge granite or rough marble 
building. 

“ There I live,” said lie. “ It ’s not a jail, as 
you might suppose from its grimmisli aspect. 
Not an Asylum. Not a Retreat. No lunatictq 
that I know of, kept there, nor anything mys- 
terious, guilty, or out of the way.” 

“ Chrysalis College, is it not ? ” ' 

“ A'ou have not forgotten its monastic phiz ? ” 

“No; I remember the sham convenf, sham 
castle, modern-antique affair. But hovi do you 


34 


CECIL DREEME. 


happen to be quartered there ? Is the College 
defunct ? ” 

“Not defunct ; only without vitality. Tho 
Trustees fancied that, if tlicy built roomy, their 
college would be populous ; if they built marble, 
it would be permanent ; if they built Gothic, it 
would be scliolastic and mediaeval in its in- 
fluences ; if they had narrow, mullioned win- 
dows, not too much disorganizing modern thought 
would penetrate.” 

“ Weil, and what was the result'? ” 

“ The iCsiilt is, that the old nickname of 
Chrysalis sticks to it, and whatever real name 
it may have is forgotten. There it stands, big, 
battlemented, buttressed, marble, with windows 
like crenelles ; and inside they keep up the tra- 
ditional methods of education.” 

“ But pupils don’t beleaguer it ? ” 

“ That is the blunt fact. It stays an in- 
effectual high-low school. The halls and lecture- 
rooms would stand vacant, so they let them to 
lodgers.” 

“ You are not very grateful to your land- 
lords.” 

“ I pay my rent, and have a right to criti- 
cise.” 

“ Who live there besides you ? ” 

“ Several artists, a brace of young doctors, 
one or two ipiiet men about town, Churm, and 
myself.” 


CECIL DREEME. 


35 


“ Churm ! How is that noble old fellow ? I 
count upon reclaiming his friendship.” 

“How is Churm? Just the same. Tranquil 
sage ; headlong boy. An aristocratic radical. 
A Timon without gall. Says the wisest things ; 
does the kindest. Knows everything ; and yet 
is always ready for the new truth that nulli- 
fies the old facts. He cannot work inside of the 
institutions of society. He calls them ‘ shingle- 
cells,’ tight and transitory. He cannot get over 
'.lis cyiiical way of putting a subject, though 
there is no cynic in his heart. So the world 
rotes him odd, and lets him have his own way.” 

“ Lucky to get liberty at cost of a nickname ! 
Who would not be called odd to be left free ? ” 

“ If Churm were poor, he would be howled at 
as a radical, a destructive, an infidel.” 

“ I suppose he is too rich and powerful to be 
harmed, and too intrepid to care.” 

“ Yes ; and then there is something in Churm’s 
rigor that disarms opposition. His generosity 
hoists people up to his level. But here we are, 
Byng, at the grand portal of the grand front.” 

“ I see the front and the door. Where is the 
grandeur ? ” 

“Don’t put on airs, stranger! We call this 
imposing, magnifique, in short, pretty good. Up 
goes your nose 1 You have lived too long in 
Florence. Brunelleschi and Giotto have spoilf 


86 CECIL DREEME. 

you. Well, I will show you something bettor 
inside. Follow me ! ” 

We entered the edifice, half college, half lodg 
ing-house, through a large doorway, under a 
])ointcd arch. Tlic interior was singularly ill- 
contrived. A lobby opened at the door, com- 
municating with a dim corridor running through 
the middle of the building, parallel to the front. 
A fan-tracery vaulting of plaster, peeled and 
crumbling, ceiled the lobby. A marble stairway, 
with iron hand-rails, went squarely and clumsily 
up from the door, nearly filling the lobby. 

Stillfleet led the way up-stairs. 

He pointed to the fan-tracery. 

“ This of course reminds you of King’s College 
Chapel,” said he. 

‘‘ Entirely,” replied I. “ Pity it is deciduous ! ” 
and 1 brushed off from my coat several flakes of 
its whitewash. 

The stairs landed us on the main floor of the 
building. Another dimly lighted corridor, an- 
swering to the one below, but loftier, ran from 
end to end of the building. This also was paved 
with marble tiles. Large Gothicish doors opened 
along on either side. The middle room on the 
rear of the corridor was two stories high, and 
served as chapel and lecture-room. On either 
side of this, a narrow staircase climbed to the 
upper floors. 


CECIL DREEME. 


37 


By the half-light from the great window over 
the doorway where we had entered, and from a 
small single mullioned window at the northern 
end of the corridor, there was a bastard mediae- 
v^lism of etfect in Chrysalis, rather welcome after 
the bald red-brick houses without. 

How do you like it ?” asked Stillfleet. ‘‘ It ’s 
not old enough to be romantic. But then it does 
not smell of new paint, as the rest of America 
does.’’ 

We turned up the echoing corridor toward the 
north window. We passed a side staircase and 
a heavily padlocked door on the right. On the 
left was a class-room. The door was open. We 
could see a swarm of collegians buzzing for such 
drops of the honey of learning as they could get 
from a lank plant of a professor. 

We stopped at the farther door on the right, 
adjoining the one so carefully padlocked. It 
oore my friend’s plate, — 

H. Stillfleet, 

Abchitect. 


CHAPTER III. 


EUBBISH PALACE 

Stillfleet drew a great key, aimed at tlie 
keyhole, and snapped the bolt, all with a myste- 
rious and theatrical air. 

Now,” said he, “ how is your pulse ? ” 

Steady and full. Why should n’t it bo ? ” 

‘‘ Shut your eyes, then ! Open sesame ! Eyes 
eight ? Enter into Rubbish Palace ! ” 

He led me several steps forward. 

“ Open ! ” he commanded. 

‘‘ Where am I ? ” I cried, staring about in sur- 
prise. 

‘‘ City of Manhattan, corner of Manncring 
Place and Ailanthus Square, Chrysalis College 
Buildings.” 

“ Harry,” said I, ‘‘ this is magic, phantasma- 
goria. Outside was the nineteenth century ; 
liere is the fifteenth. When I shut my eyes, I 
was in a seedy building in a busy modern town ; 
I open them, and hero I am in the Palazzo Sfor- 
za of an old Italian city, in the great chamber 
where there was love and hate, passion and do- 


CECIL DREEME. 


39 


spair, revelry and poison, long before Columbus 
cracked the egg/’ 

“ It is rather a rum old place,” said Stillfleet, 
twisting his third moustache, and enjoying my 
surprise. 

“ Trot out your Bengal tiger. Let me swing 
him, and measure the dimensions.” 

“ Tiger and I did that long ago. It is thirty 
feet square and seventeen high.” 

“ Built for some grand college purpose, I sup- 
pose.” 

“ As a hall, I believe, for the dons to receive 
lions on great occasions. But lions and great 
occasions never come. So I have inherited. It 
is the old story. ^ Sic vos fion vobis ccdificatis 
ccdesd How do you like it ? Not too sombre, 
eh ? with only those two narrow windows open- 
ing north ? ” 

“ Certainly not too sombre. I don’t want the 
remorseless day staring in upon my studies. 
How do I like it ? Enormously. The place is 
a romance.” 

“It is Dantesque, Byronic, Victor Hugoish.” 

“ Yes,” said I, looking up. “ I shall be sure 
of rich old morbid fancies under this ceiling, with 
its frescoed arabesques, faded and crumbling.” 

“ You have a taste for the musty, then,” said 
Harry. 

“ Anything is better than the raw. The Chiiz- 


40 


CECIL DREEME. 


zlewit has given me enough of that. Well, Har- 
ry, your den is my den, if you say so.” 

‘‘ Yours to liave and to hold while I am gone, 
and much romance may you find here. Let -me 
show you the whole. Here ’s my bath-room, 

‘ replete,’ as the advertisements say, ‘ with every 
convenience.’ Here, alongside, is my bedroom.” 

He opened doors in the wall opposite the win- 
dows. 

“ A gilded bedstead ! ” said I. 

‘‘ It was Marshal Soult’s, bought cheap at his 
sale.” 

“ A yellow satin coverlet ! ” 

‘‘ Louis Philippe’s. Citizen Sabots stole it from 
the Tuileries in ’48 and sold it to me.” 

‘‘ But what is this dark cavern, next the bed- 
room ? ” I asked. “ Where does that door at 
the back open ? ” 

“ Oh ! that is my trash room. Those boxes 
contain ‘ Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff.’ I was 
jockeyed with old masters once, as my compatri- 
ots still are. I don’t hang them up and post 
myself for a greenhorn.” 

‘‘ But that door at the back ? ” 

. “ What are you afraid of, Byng ? ” 

‘‘ I ask for information.” 

Your voice certainly trembled. No danger. 
Rachel will never peer through and hiss ‘ Le 
flambeau fume encore.^ No Lady Macbeth will 


CECIL DREEME. 


41 


inarch in, wringing her hands that never will be 
clean.” 

“ I hope not, I am sure.” 

“ It is clear you expect it. Your tone is 
ominous.” 

Indeed. A Palazzo Sforza style of place 
inspires Palazzo Sforza fancies, perhaps. But 
really, Harry, where does tlie door open ? ” 

“ It does not open, and j)robably will not till 
doomsday. It is bolted solid on my side, what- 
ever it be on the other. It leads to a dark 
room.” 

‘‘ A dark room ! that is Otrantoish.” 

‘‘ A windowless room, properly an appendage 
■ to this. But there is another door on the corn 
dor. You may have noticed it, closed with a 
heavy padlock. The tenant enters there, and 
asks no right of way of me.” 

“ The tenant, who is he ? I should know my 
next neighbor.” 

‘‘You know him already.” 

“ Don’t play with my curiosity. Name.” 

“ Densdeth.” 

“ Densdeth,” I repeated, aware of a slight un- 
easiness. “ What use has he for a dark room ? 

■ — here, too, in this public privacy of Chrysalis?” 

“ The publicity makes privacy. Densdeth says 
it is his store-room for books and furniture.” 

“Well, why not? You speak incredulously.’^ 


42 


CECIL DEEILAIE. 

“ Because there is a faint suspicion that he 
lies. The last janitor, an ex-servant of Dens- 
deth’s, is dead. None now is allowed to enter 
there except the owner’s own man, a horrid 
black creature. He opens the door cautiously, 
and a curtain appears. He closes the door be- 
fore he lifts it. Densdeth may pestle poisons, 
grind stilettos, sweat eagles, revel by gas-light 
there. What do I know ? ” 

You are not inquisitive, then, in Chrysalis.” 

‘‘No. We have no concierge by the street- 
door to spy ourselves or our visitors. We can 
live here in completer privacy than anywhere in 
Christendom. Daggeroni, De Bogus, or Made- 
moiselle des Mollets might rendezvous with my 
neighbor, and I never be the wiser.” 

“ Well, if Densdeth is well bolted out of my 
quarters, I will not pry into his. And now I ’ll 
look about a little at your treasures.” 

“ Do ; while I finish packing. I cannot quite 
decide about taking clean shirts to Washington. 
Ill a clean shirt I might abash a Senator.” 

“ Abash without mercy ! the country will thank 
you,” said I. “But, old fellow, what a wealth 
of art, virtu, and rococo you have here ! ” 

“I have samjdcd all tlie ages of tlic world. No 
era has any right to comjilain of neglect,” says 
Stillflcet, patronizingly. “ You will find speci- 
mens of the arts from Tubal Cain’s time down. 


CECIL DREEilE. 


43 


One does not prowl about Europe ten years with- 
out making a fair bag of plunder. How old 
Churm enjoys my old books, old plates, and old 
objets ” 

‘‘ I hope he will not desert the place when its 
proper master is gone. Where are his quarters 
in Chrysalis ? ” 

“ Story above, southwest corner, with an eye 
to the sunset. Odd fellow he is'! He lurks here 
in a little hermit cell, when he might live in a 
gold house with diamond window-panes.” 

“ Is he so rich ? ” 

“ Croesus was a barefooted pauper to him.” 

“ Not a miser, — that I know.” 

“ No ; he spends as a prairie gives crops. But 
always for others. He would be too lavish, if 
he were not discretion itself. Only his personal 
habits are ascetic.” 

‘‘ Perhaps he once had to harden himself stern- 
ly against a sorrow, and so asceticism grew a 
habit.” 

Perhaps. He is a lonely man. Well, here 
I am, packed, abashing shirts and all ! Come 
down now. I must exhibit you, as my successor, 
to Locksley, the janitor of Chrysalis, — and a 
?,apital good fellow he is.” 


CHAPTER lY. 


THE PALACE AND ITS NEIGHBORS. 

Stillit^eet and I passed out into the chilly 
marble-paved corridor. 

Tlie young Chrysalids in the class-room seemed 
to he in high revolt. They were mobbing their 
lank professor. We could see the confusion 
through the open door. 

“ He takes it meekly, you see,” said Stillfleet. 

He knows that the hullabaloo is n’t half pun- 
ishment enough for his share in the fiction of call- 
ing the place a college.” 

We descended the main stairway. The white- 
washed fan -tracery snowed its little souvenir on 
us as we passed. On the ground floor, a few 
steps along the damp corridor, was the door 
marked “Janitor.” 

Stillfleet pulled the bell. A cheerful, hand- 
some, housewifely woman opened. 

“ Can we come in, Mrs. Locksley ? ” said my 
friend. 

“ You are always welcome, Mr. Stillfleet.” 

We entered a compact little snuggery. There 


CECIL DREEME. 


45 


was sometliing infinitely honest and trusty in the 
effect and atmospliere of the place. 

Three junior Locksleys caught sight of Still- 
fleet. They rushed at him, with shouts and gam- 
bols enough for a dozen. 

I love to see children kitten it securely about 
a young man. They know friends and foes with- 
out l)aying battles and wounds for the knowledge. 
They seem to divine a sour heart, a stale heart, 
or a rotten lieart, by unerring instinct. If a man 
is base metal, he may pass current with the old 
counterfeits like himself; children will not touch 
him. 

The world has smoked and salted me,” said 
Stillfleet, ‘‘ and tried to cure me hard as an old 
ham. But tliere is a fresh spot inside me, Byng, 
and juveniles always find it. I ’ve come to say 
good-bye, children,” he continued ; but here ’s 
Mr. Bob Byng, he ’ll take my place. His liead 
is full of fairy stories for Dora. His fingers make 
windmills and pop-guns almost without knowing 
it. Think of that, Hall ! ” 

Dora, a pretty damsel of Dvelve, and Hall, a 
ten-year-old male and sturdy, inspected me crit- 
ically. Was 1 bogus ? Tlieir looks said, they 
thought not. 

As for Key Locksley here,” said Harry, “ all 
he wants is romp and sugar-plums. This is Mr. 
Byug, Key. ‘ Some in his pocket and some ii? 


46 


CECIL DKEEME. 


bis sleeve, be ’s made of sugar-plums I do be- 
lieve.’ ” 

So Master Key, a toddler, accepted me as bis 
Lord Chief Confectioner. 

“ Now, children,” said Stillfleet, with mock 
gravity, “ be Mr. Byng’s monitors. Require 
him to set you a good example. Tell him young 
men generally go to the bad without children to 
watch over them.” 

‘‘ Many a true word is spoken in jest,” said 
Mrs. Locksley. 

But where is your husband ? ” my friend 
asked. “ I must exhibit his new tenant to him.” 

“ Coming, sir ! ” said a voice from the bedroom 
adjoining. 

I had beard a rustling and crackling there, as 
if some one was splitting his way into a starchy 
clean shirt. 

At the word, out came Locksley, a bristly 
little man. His hair and beard were so stiff 
•that I fancied at once lie could discharge a 
volley of hairs, as a porcupine shoots quills at 
a foe. This bristliness and a pair of keen black 
eyes gave him a sharp, alert, and warlike look, as 
if he were quick to take alarm, but not likely 
to be frightened. No danger of the hobblede- 
hoys of Chrysalis, the College, riding roughshod 
over such a janitor. 

1 detected him as a man who had seen better 


CECIL DREEME. 


47 


days, and hoped to see them again, by his shirt- 
collars. They were stiff as Calvinism and white 
as Spitzbergen. Such collars are the badge of 
men who, though low in the pocket, are not down 
in the mouth. So long as there is starch in the 
shirt, no matter how little nap the coat wears ; 
but limp linen betokens a desponding spirit, and 
presently there will be no linen and despair. 

“ Locksley,” said Stillfleet, in his rattling, 
Frenchy way, here ’s my friend Byng, Rob- 
ert Byng, Esquire, of Everywhere and Nowhere. 
I pop out and he pops in to Rubbish Palace. 
He ’s been a half-century in Europe and knows 
no more of America than the babe unborn. Pro- 
tect his innocence in this strange city. Save 
him from Peter Funk. Don’t let him stay oUt 
after curfew. He must not make any low ac- 
quaintances in Chrysalis. He has a pet animal, 
the Orgie, picked up in Paris, very noisy and 
bites ; don’t allow him to bring it into these 
quiet cloisters. Well, I trust him to you and 
Mrs. Locksley. I ’m off for Washington. Good 
by, all ! ” 

He shook hands with janitor and janitress, 
kissed Dora, tweaked the boys, and fled riotously. 

1 saw him and Ids traps into a carriage and 
off, — off and out of the era of my life which 
I describe in these pages. With him I fear the 
merry element disappears from a sombre story. 


48 


CECIL DREEME. 


I perceived what a lonely fellow I was, as 
soon as I lost sight of Stillfleet. 

“ Every man has his friends, if he can only 
find them,” I said to myself. But here I am, 
a returned absentee, and not a soul knows me, 
except Densdeth. Exit Harry Stillfleet ; manet 
Densdeth. I believe I will look him up. Why 
should I make a bHe noir of such an agreeable 
fellow ? He won’t bite. He ’s no worse than 
half the men I ’ve known. But first I must 
transfer myself bag and baggage to Chrysalis.” 

The Chuzzlewit unwillingly disgorged me and 
my traps, after so short a period of feeding upon 
us. The waiter, specially detailed to keep me 
waiting if my bell rang, handled his clothes- 
broom, when he saw me depart, as if he would 
like to knock me down, lock me up, and make 
me pay a princely ransom for my liberty. 

I escaped, however, without a skirmish or the 
aid of a policeman, and presently made my for- 
mal entry into Rubbish Palace. 

‘‘ Great luck ! ” thought I, beginning to un- 
pack and arrange, ‘‘ to find myself at home the 
first day.” 

“ Dreadful bore, to beat through this great 
city on a house-hunt ! ” 

I picked up a newspaper on Stillfleet’s table, 
and read the advertisements. 

“ Lodgings for a single gentleman of pious 
-■»abits.” 


CECIL DKEEME. 


49 


Fine suite of apartments to let. N. B. Dods- 
ley’s Band practises next door, and can be heard 
free of expense^ at all hours of day or night.” 

“ Parlor and bedroom over Dr. Toothaker’s 
office in Bond Street. Murderers, Coroners, 
Jlanjoists, and District Attorneys need not ap- 
ply.” 

I was glai to have escaped inquiring into such 
places, and to tumble into luxury at once. 

And comfort ? I asked myself. How as to 
comfort ? 

My new quarters were almost too grandiose for 
comfort. Tliat simple emotion was hardly suffi- 
ciently ambitious for an apartment big enough to 
swing a tiger, fifteen feet from tip to tip, in. 
There was no chimney, and therefore none of 
the domestic cheerfulness of an open fire. But 
an open fire would have interfered with the 
Italian aspect of the chamber. To keep the 
temperature up to Italy, I had a mighty stove, 
a great architectural pile of cast-iron, elaborate 
as if Prometheus had been a mediaeval saint, and ^ 
this were his shrine. 

I looked about my great room, and it seemed 
to me more and more as if I were tenanting the 
museum of some old virtuoso Tuscan marquis, 
the last habitable chamber of his palazzo, the 
treasury where he had huddled all the heir- 
looms of the race since they were Counts of 

3 


D 


50 


CECIL DREEME. 


Etruria, long befure Romulus cubbed it with 
wolves and Remus scorned earth-works. 

It is idle to say that the scenery about a man’s 
^life does not affect his character. It does so just 
in proportion to his sensitiveness. A clown, of 
course, might inhabit the Palace of Art, with the 
Garden of Eve in front and the Garden of Ar- 
mida behind, and still never have any but clown- 
ish thoughts in his clown’s noddle. 

Whatever else I was, I was certainly not a 
clown. My being was susceptible to every touch 
and every breath of influence. My new home 
and its scenery took me at once in liand, and 
began to string me to harmony with itself. I 
fell into a spiritual mood befitting the place. 

A romantic place. 

And Stillfleet’s collection heightened the ro- 
mantic effect. Stillfleet was a fellow of the prac- 
tical and artistic natures well combined, with a 
bizarre slash, a bend dexter of oddity running 
through him. Fact, beauty, and fun were all 
j*epresented in his museum. 

He had, as he said, sampled all the ages. The 
ages when beings were brutes, and did nothing 
but feed and drink and fight and frisk and die, 
leaving no sign but an unwieldy skeleton, were 
represented^ in this Congress by a great thigh- 
bone, which a shambling mammoth had spent his 
days in exaggerating. 


CECIL DREEMK. 


51 


The fossil stood to symbolize the first kick of 
animal life against chaos. From that beginning 
the series went on rapidly. The times when Art 
put its fancies into amorphous, into grotesque, 
into clumsy forms, had all contributed some typ- 
ical object. 

Then of things of beauty, joys forever, there 
was abundance. There were models of the most 
mythological temples, and the most Christian 
spires and towers. There were prints and pic- 
tures, old and young. There were curiosities in 
iron and steel, in enamel and ivory, in glass and 
gem, in armor and weapons. 

I will not attempt at present to catalogue this 
museum, or give any distinct impression of it. 
On that first afternoon I did not pause to an- 
alyze. I should have plenty of time in future, 
and now I had my own traps to arrange. That 
must be done systematically, so that I should be 
a settled man from the start. 

I felt, however, as I proceeded with my un- 
packing and bestowing, a fine sense of order in 
the apparent whimsical disorder of the objects 
about me. The pictures had not alighted on the 
walls merely at the first convenient percli. There 
was method in all the contrasts and confusions ol 
the place. 

That modern French picture, for example, o^ 
masquers — a painting all vigor, all abandon^ ali 


i 

/)2 CECIL DEEEME. 

untorriried and riotous color — had not without 
spiritual, as well as artistic significance, ranged 
itsell* beside a scene of a meagre Franciscan in a 
cavern, contemplating a scourge, a cup, and a 
crust. There was propriety in setting a cast of 
the Venus of Milo in a corner with the armor of 
a knight and the pike of a Puritan. 

As I went on putting my chattels to rights and 
making myself at home in a methodic way, the 
atmosphere of the spot more and more affected 
me. I am careful in stating this dreamy influ- 
ence. A certain romantic feeling of expectation 
took possession of me. I had no definite life be- 
fore me. I was passive, and awaiting events. A 
man at work resists emanations and miasms ; a 
man at rest is infected. 

I looked about the room. Everything in it 
seemed watching me. I fancied that the ancient 
ol)jects were weary of being regarded as dead cu- 
riosities, as fossils. They seemed to reclaim their 
former semi-animation, to desire to be tlie prop- 
erties of an actual drama, to long to sympatliize 
with joy and sorrow, as they had dumbly sympa- 
thized long ago. 

I felt myself becoming a dramatic personage, 
but with no role yet assigned. 

‘‘Here is the stage,” I thought. “ Here is the 
scenery. Here is such a hall as conspirators, 
when there were conspirators, would have held 


CECIL DREEME. 


53 


iryst in. But the vindictive centuries are dead 
and gone. There is no Vehm to sit here in som- 
bre judgment. And if there were a Vehm, the 
age of crime is over. I dare say I shall lead a 
commonplace life enough here, — study, smoke, 
sleep, just as if the room were not thirty fee\ 
square, ‘dimly lighted witli mullioned windows, 
and hung with pictures grim with three centuries 
of silent monitorship. 

“ Lucky that I ’m not superstitious ! ’’ my 
thought continued. ‘‘ I never shall peer behind 
the bed for ghosts, or for fiends into the coal-bin. 
A superstitious man might well be uneasy here. 
If I wanted to give a timid fellow the horrors, ! 
would shut him up in this very room for a single 
niglit without light and without cigars. I don’t 
believe a guilty man could stand it at all. If 
one had fathered villain purposes, those bastards 
of the soul’s begetting would be sure to return 
and plague their parent in these lodgings. No, 
a guilty man could never live here a day. 

“ Densdeth, now, — how would he like to be 
quartered in Rubbish Palace ? I forget that he 
does occupy the next room. By the way, I will 
see whether the door to his dark room is fast on 
my side.” 

I crowded between the piles of packing-cases 
in Stillfleet’s lumber-closet to examine. Unless 
Densdeth were a spirit, and could squeeze through 


54 


CECIL DREEME. 


a keyhole, I was safe from a visit by that en- 
trance. Stillfleet had screwed on this door a 
grand piece of ancient ironmongery, a bolt big 
enough to hold the gate of a condemned cell. 

As I stooped to admire the workmanship of 
the old bolt, I was aware of the faint fragrance 
of a subtle and luxurious perfume. Stilllleet’s 
boxes were musty enough. The scent was only 
perceptible at the door. It must come from the 
other side. 

“ Odor of boudoir, not store-room,” I thought. 
“ But perhaps he keeps a box of some precious 
nard stored here, and it has sprung a leak. 
Never mind, Mr. Byng ; keep your nose for your 
own Cologne-bottle. Boudoir or magazine, re- 
member it is Densdeth’s, a man you mistrust.” 

I shut the closet-door, left the coffins of Still- 
fleet’s Old Masters in their dark vault, and re- 
turned to my work. 

In another half-hour all my traps had found 
their places. Everything, from boots to Bible, 
was where it would come to hand at need. I 
laid my matches so that I need not grope about 
in the formidable dimness of my chamber when I 
entered at night. 

It was five o’clock. I felt a great want of so- 
ciety, and an imperative appetite for dinner. 

‘‘ Why not venture,” I asked myself, to 
knock at Mr. Churm’s door up-stairs ? Perhaps 


CECIL DREEME. 


55 


he will dine with me at 4he Clmzzlewit, or sliow 
me a better place. He will not think me imper- 
tinent, I am sure, in making myself known anew 
to him.” 

I took the nearest staircase for the floor above, 
expecting to find there another corridor running 
the whole length of the building, as below. A 
locked door, however, at the left of the landing 
o))structed my passage towards Churm’s side of 
Chrysalis. At the right also was a door, cutting 
off that portion of the corridor. It stood ajar. 

As I was turning to descend, and find my way 
by the other staircase to Churm’s lodgings, the 
question occurred to me, Have I a neighbor 
overhead ? Densdeth beside me, — who is above ? 
By what name shall I chide liim, if in dancing 
his breakdowns he comes crashing througli the 
centre-piece of my ceiling ? I should be glad to 
have a fine fellow close at hand to serve me as a 
counterblast to Densdeth. I must have friends, 
and if I can find one in my neighbor, so much 
the better.” 

I pushed open the door, and entered tlie little 
hall ; it was lighted, as below, by a narrow mill- 
lioned window, — only half-lighted at that hou: 
of a winter’s afternoon. 

A lonely, dismal place. Tlie ceiling, instead 
of showing a tidy baldness under recent comb- 
mgs by a housemaid’s broom, w^as all hairy wdth 


66 


CECIL DREEME. 

cobwebs. 1 was surprised that no spider had 
slung himself across the doorway, making the 
lobby a cave of Adullam. 

There were two doors on the right. Each was 
labelled “ To Let.” The light was so faint by 
this time that I was obliged to approach close to 
satisfy myself that ‘‘To Let” was not the name 
of a tenant. 

On the left the same unprofitable nonentity 
occupied the room over Densdeth’s. The fourth 
door, corresponding to my own, remained. I 
inspected that in turn. 

An ordinary visiting-card was tacked to the 
door. It bore a name neatly printed by hand. 

I deciphered it with difficulty by the twilight 
through the grimy window : — 

Cecil Dreeme, 

Painter. ' 

A modest little door-plate. Its shyness inter- 
ested me at once. Some men force their name 
and business on the world’s eye, as the vulgar 
and pushing announce their presence by a loud 
voice and large manner. A person of conscious 
power will let his works speak for him. Take 
cai’c of the woik, and the name will take care of 
itself. 

“ IMr. Cecil Dreeme,” I said to myself, “ is 
some confident genius, willing to have his name 


67 


CECIL DIIEEME. 

remain in dimijiutive letters on a visiting-card 
until the world writes it in big capitals in Val* 
balla. Here he lurks and works, ‘ like some 
poet hidden in the realm of thought.’ By and 
by a great picture will walk out through this 
cobwebby corridor. 

‘‘ Cecil Dreenie,” I repeated. My neighbor 
overhead has a most musical, most artistic name. 
Dreeme, — yes ; the sound, if not the spelling, 
fits perfectly. A painter’s life, if common theo- 
ries be true, sliould be all a dream. Visions of 
Paradises and Peris should always be with him. 
No vulgar, harsh, or cruel realities should shat- 
ter his placid repose. Cecil, too, — how fortu- 
nate that those liquid syllables were sprinkled 
upon liim by the surplice at the font. Tom or 
Sam or Peter would have been an unpardonable 
discord.” 

Cecil Dreeme ! The melodious vagueness of 
the name gently attracted me. It was to mine 
wliat the note of a flute is to the crack of a 
rifle. 

Cecil Dreeme — Robert Byng. 

‘‘ There is a contrast to begin with,” I tliought. 
“ Our professions, too, are antagonistic. Chem- 
istry — Art. Formulas — Inspirations. Anal- 
ysis — Combination.- I work with matter; he 
with spirit. I unmake ; he makes. I split 
atoms, unravel gases ; he grafts lovely image 

3 * 


CECIL DREEME. 


f)8 

upon lovely image, and weaves a thousand gos* 
samers of beauty into one transcendent fabric.” 

As these fancies ran through my brain, I be 
gan to develop a lively curiosity in my neighbor 
overhead. 

Remember that I was a ten yeais^ absentee, 
without relatives, without sure fidends, wanting 
society, and just now a thought romanticized by 
the air and scenery of Rubbish Palace. 

I began to long to be acquainted with this 
gentleman above me, tins possible countcrl)last 
to Densdeth, tliis possible apparition through my 
cciline: at the heel of a breakdown. 

“ Docs he, then, dance breakdowns ? ” I thought. 
“ Is ho perhaps a painter of the frowzy class, 
with a velvet coat, mop of hair and mile of 
beard, pendulous pi])e and a figurante on the 
bowl, and with a Diisseldorf, not to say Bohe- 
mian, demeanor. Is he a man whose art is a 
trade, wlio paints a picture as he would daub 
the side of a house ? Or is he the true Artist, a 
refined and spiritualized being, Raphael in look. 

Fra Angelico in life, a man in force, but with 

% 

the feminine insiglit, — one whose labor is love, 
one wliose every work is a poem and a prayer ? 
Which ? Sliall I knock and discover ? An ar- 
tist generally opens his doors hospitably to an 
amateur. 

No ” I decided, “ I will not knock. We 


CECIL DREEME. 


59 


shall meet, if Destiny lias no objection. Two in 
the saine Chrysalis, we cannot dodge cacli otlie. 
without some trouble. If I am lonely by and 
by, and yearn for a friend, and lie does not dance 
througli my centre-piece, I will lire a ])istol-bal] 
through his floor. Then apology, laugh, conies 
sion, and sworn friendship, — that is, of course, 
if he is Raphael-Aiigelico, not Boliemian-Diissel- 
dorf.” 

These fancies, so long in the telling, flashed 
rapidly througli my mind. 

I turned away from the door, with its quiet 
announcement of the name and business of a 
tenant, not precisely evading, but certainly not 
inviting notice. 

I made my way down, and up again by the 
other staircase to the same floor. Here 1 found 
the same arrangement of rooms, but more popu- 
lation and fewer cobwebs. The southern expos- 
ure was preferred to the northern, in that chilly 
structure. 

1 knocked at Mr. John Churm’s door in the 
southwest corner of the building. 

No “ Come in.’’ I must dine alone at the 
Cini zzlewit. 

As 1 stepped from Chrysalis, I gave a look to 
Ailantlius Square in front. 

“ This will never do ! ” I exclaimed. 

It was a wretched place, stiffly laid out, shab- 


GO CECIL DREEME. 

bily kept, planted with mean, twigless trees, and 
in the middle the basin of an extinct fountain 
filled with foul snow, through whicdi the dead 
cats and dogs were beginning to sprout at the 
solicitation of the winter’s sunshine. 

A dreary place, and drearily surrounded oy 
red brick houses, with marble steps monstrous 
white, and blinds monstrous green, — all destined 
to be boarding-houses in a decade. 

“ This will never do ! ” I exclaimed again. 
“ Outdoor life offers no temptation. I am forced 
inward to indoor duties and pleasures. Objects 
in America are not attractive. I must content 
myself with people. And what people ? My 
first day wanes, Stillfleet is off, and 1 have made 
no acquaintance but a musical name on a dcor 
in a dusty corner of Chrysalis.” 


OHAPTEil V. 


CHURM AGAINST DENSDETH. 

1 HAD lidrdly taken my first spoonful of hike 
warm mock soup at the long, crowded dinner- 
table of the Cliuzzlewit, when General Blinckers, 
a fellow-passenger on the Arago, caught sight of 
me. lie bowed, with a burly, pompous, militia- . 
general manner, and sent me his sherry. It was 
the Cliuzzlewit Amontillado, so a gorgeous label 
announced, and suns! line, so its date alleged, 
had ripened it a score of years before on an aro- 
matic hill-side of Spain. But the bottle was very 
young for old wine, the label very pretentious for 
famous wine, and my draught, as I expected, 
gnawed me cruelly. 

In a moment came a bow from Governor Bluf- 
fer, also fellow-passenger, and his bottle of the 
Cliuzzlewit champagne, — label prismatic and 
glowing, bubbles transitory, wine sugary and 
vapid. 

Bluffer was of Indiana, returning from a trip 
to Europe as a railroad-bond placer. He had 
placed his bonds, second mortgages of the Mud 


62 CECIL DREEME. 

defontaiiie Railroad, with great success. His 
State would now become first in America, first 
in Christendom. He was sure of it. And by 
way of advancing the process, he had proposed 
to me to become “ Professor of Science ” in the 
Terryluitte University, — salary five third moit- 
gages of the Muddefontaine per annum. 

Blinckcrs was of Tennessee, wild-land agent. 
He had been urgent all the passage that I should 
take post as Professor in the Nolachucky State 
Polytechnic School, — salary a thousand acres 
per annum of wild land in the Cumberland 
Mountains. 

Both of these offers I had declined ; but I was 
obliged to the two gentlemen. I bowed back to 
their bows, and sipped the liquids they had sent 
me without mouthing. 

Presently, as I glanced up and down the table, 
1 caught sight of Densdeth’s dark, handsome 
face. He had turned from his companion, and' 
was lookino: at me. He lifted his black mous- 
tachc with a slight sneer, and pointed to untasted 
glasses of Bliiickers and Bluffer standing before 
rfim. 

See ! ” his glance seemed to say. ‘‘ Libations 
at the shrine of Densdeth, the millionnaire. 
Those old chaps would kiss my feet, if I hinted 
it.’' 

Then he held up his own private glass, as if 
hi say, with Comus, — 


CECIL DREEME. 


(33 


‘‘Behold this cordial julep lore, 

That flames and dances in his crystal bounds ! ” 

A dusty magnum stood beside him, without 
label, but wearing a conscious look of impor- 
tance. He carefully filled a goblet with its 
purple contents, and despatched it to me by his 
OAvn servant. 

Densdeth was a coxcomb, partly by nature, 
partly for effect. He liked to call attention to 
himself as the Great Densdeth. He always had 
special wines, special dainties, and special ser- 
vice. 

‘‘ It pays to be conspicuous,” he said to me, on 
board the steamer. I don’t attempt to hum- 
bug fellows like you, Byng,” — and at this I of 
course felt a little complimented, — “ but we 

must take men as we find them. They are 

•/ 

asses. I treat them as such. Ordinary people 
adore luxury. They love to see it, whether 
tliey share it or not. A little quiet show and 
lavishness on one’s self is a capital thing to 
get the world’s confidence. 

“ Besides, Byng,” he continued, ‘‘ I love lux- 
ury for its own sake. I mean to have the best 
for all my senses. I keep myself in perfect 
health, you see,, for perfect sensitiveness and 
perfect enjoyment. Why should n’t I take the 
little ti’ouble it requires to have the most deli- 
cate winej and other things the most delicate, 


64 


CECIL DREEME. 


always at command ? Life is short. Aprh^ It 
delvge^ or worse.” 

Wliile I was recalling these remarks, Dens- 
deth’s servant had deposited the wine at my 
right. He was an Afreet creature, this ser- 
vant, black, ugly, and brutal as the real Mumbo 
Jumbo. Yet sometimes, as he stood by his mas- 
ter, I could not avoid perceiving a resemblance, 
and fancying him a misbegotten repetition of 
the other. And at the moments when I mis- 
trusted Densdetli, I felt that the Afreet’s repul- 
sive appearance more fitly interpreted his mas- 
ter’s soul than the body by which it acted. 

I raised the goblet to my mouth. Tlie aroma 
was delicious. 

“ Densdetli,” I thought, “ must have had a 
cask of the happiest vintage of Burgundy’s di- 
vinest juice hung in gimbals, and floated over 
the Atlantic in the June calms.” 

I put tlie fragrant draught to my lips, and 
bowed my compliments. 

Densdetli was studying me, with a covert ex- 
pression, — so I felt or fancied. I interpreted his 
look, — “Young man, I saw on the steamer that 
you were worth buying, worth perverting. I have 
sj)ent more civility than usual on you already. 
How much more have I to pay? Are you a 
cheap commodify ? Or must I give time and 
pains and studj to make you mine ? ” 


CECIL DREEME. 


65 


Do these fancies seem extravagant ? They 
must justify themselves hereafter in this history. 

I set down Densdeth’s glass, untasted. 

What does it mean,” thought I, “ this man’s 
strange fascination ? When liis eyes are upon 
me, I feel something stir in my heart, saying, 
‘ Be Densdetli’s ! He knows the* mystery of 
life.’ I begin to dread him. Will he master 
my will ? What is this potency of Ids ? How 
has he got this lodgment in my spirit ? Is he 
one of those fabulous personages who only exist 
while they are preying upon another soul, who 
are torpid unless they are busy contriving a dam 
nation ? Why has he been trying to turn mo 
inside out all the voyage ? Why has he kept 
touching the raw spots and the rotten spots in 
my nature? I can be of no use to him. What 
does he want of me? Not to make me better 
and nobler, — that I am sure of. No ; I will not 
touch his wine. I will keep clear of his atten- 
tions.” 

By the way of desperate evasion, I seized and 
tossed off, first, Governor Bluffer’s mawkish 
champagne, and then the acrid fabrication with 
which Blinckers had honored me. 

Of course the rash and feeble dodge was futile. 
I was not to be let off in that way. 

There stood Densdetli’s wine, attracting me 
like some magic philter. It became magnetio 

E 


G6 


CECIL DREEME. 


with Densdeth’s mafrnetism. I could almost see 
an imp in the glass, — not the teetotaller’s bottle- 
imp, but a special sprite, urging me, “ D?*ink, 
and let the draught symbolize renewed intimacy 
with Densdeth ! Drink, and accept his proffered 
alliance. Be wise, and taste ! ” 

The vulgi^r scenery of the long dining-room 
faded away from my eyes. The vulgar, dressy 
women, the ill-dressed, vulgar men, the oleagi- 
nous waiters, all became distant shadows. I heard 
the clatter and bustle and pop about me, as 
one hears the hum of mosquitos outside a bar 
at drowsy midnight. I was conscious of nothing 
but the wine — the philter — and him who had 
poured it out. 

Absurd ! Yes ; no doubt. But fact. Cer- 
tainly a Chuzzlewit dining-room is a shrine of 
the commonplace ; but even tliere such a mood 
is possible under such an influence. Densdeth 
was exceptional. 

I sat staring at the silly glass of wine, and 
began to make an unwholesome test of my self- 
control. I recalled the typical legend of Eve 
and the apple, and exaggerated the moral im- 
portance of my own incident after the same 
fashion. 

“ If I resist this symbolic cup,” thought I, 1 
im my own man ; if I yield, I am Densdeth’s.” 

When a man is weak enough to put slavery 


CECIL DREEME. 


67 


and freedom tlins in the balance, it is plain that 
he will presently be a slave. 

“ Bah ! ” I thought. “ What harm, after all, 
can this terrible person do me ? Why should 
n’t I accept his alliance ? Why should n’t I 
study him, and learn the secret of his power.” 

My slight resistance was about to yield to the 
spiritual enticement of the wine, when suddenly 
an outer force broke the spell. 

A gentleman had just taken a vacant chair 
at my right. Absorbed in the melee of my own 
morbid fancies, I had merely perceived his pres- 
ence, without noticing his person. 

Suddenly this new-comer took part in the 
drama. lie flirted his napkin, and knocked 
Densdeth’s wine-glass over into my plate. The 
purple fluid made an unpleasant mixture with 
my untouched portion of fish. 

‘‘ Thank you ! ” I exclaimed, waking at once 
from my half-trance, my magnetic stupor, and 
feeling foolish. 

I turned to look at my unexpected ally. Per- 
haps some clumsy oaf who had never brandished 
a napkin before, and struck wide, like a raw 
swordsman. 

No. My neighbor was a gentleman. He held 
out his hand cordially. 

“ Have I waked you fully, Byng ? ” ho aske^i. 

“ Mr. Ch irm ? ” said I. 


68 CECIL DREEMK. 

He nodded We shook hands. The touch 
dissijmted my brief insanity. 

“ You have been in a state of coma so long 
over that wine,” said he, “ that I thought I would 
give you a fillip of help.” • 

I tried to laugh. 

No,” resumed Churm. Only escaped dan 
gers show their comic side. You are not safe 
from Densdeth 3’’et. You would have yielded 
just now if I had not spilled the glass.” 

“ Yielded ! ” I rejoined. “ Not exactly ; I 
was proposing to test his mysterious influ- 
ence.” 

“ Never try that ! Don’t dive into temptation 
to show how stoutly you can swim. Once fairly 
under water in Acheron, and you never come to 
the top again.” 

Face Satan, and he flies, is not your motto, 
then.” 

‘‘ Face him when you must ; fly him when 
you may.” 

But really, — Devil and Densdeth ; is it quite 
polite to identify them ? ” 1 asked. 

‘‘ If you do not wish to see them melt into one, 
keep yourself from both.” 

‘‘And stay in a pretty paradise of innocence?’ 

“I cannot jest about tliis, Byng. I knew 3 
fresh, strong, pure soul, — fresher, stronger, 
purer tlian the fairest dreams of perfection. It 


CECIL DREEME. 


G9 

was the destiny of such a soul to battle with 
Deiisdcth and be beaten. Yes ; defeated, and 
driven to madness or despair.” 

‘‘ You are speaking of Clara Denman.” 

‘‘ I am.” 

As he replied, I looked up and caught Dens- 
dotli’s eye. He took my glance and carried it 
with his to the upper end of the table. A flam- 
boyant demirep was seated there. Densdeth 
marked that I observed her, and then smiled 
sinister, as if to say : “ Byng, the romantic, there 
is the type of American women ; look at her, 
and correct your boyish ideal.” 

Churm noticed this by-play. 

But better madness and death for my dear 
cliild,” said he, sadly, “ than Densdeth ! ” 

Then waiving the subject, lie continued: “You 
were surprised to find me at your side.” 

“ It was an odd chance, certainly.” 

“ No chance. Locksley told me that you had 
moved in from the Chuzzlewit, as Stillfleet’s suc- 
cessor. I knocked at Eubbish Palaee door. You 
were out. I thought you might be dining here. 
I looked in, saw you, and took my seat at your 
side. I did not hurry recognition. I was curi- 
ous to see if you would know an old friend.” 

“ I have called upon you already,” said I. “ I 
am a big boy, but I wanted to put mys^^lf under 
tutelage.” 


70 


CECIL DRElvAIE. 


Well, we are in the same Chrysalis ; we will 
try to take care of each other till our wing.’’ 

My lively interest in the name Cecil Dreeme 
recurred to me. 

“ Are there others worth knowing in Chrys- 
alis ? ” I asked. 

“ No. Bright fellows like brighter places. 
Only an old troglodyte like myself burrows in 
such a cavern. Nobody but Stillfleet could have 
kept in jolly health there. Take care it does not 
make you sombre.” 

“ It will suit my sober, plodding habits. But 
tell me, do you know anything of a Mr. Dreeme, 
a painter, fellow-lodger of ours ? I saw his name 
on a door as I was looking for yours ? Is he a 
rising genius ? Must I know him ? ” 

As I asked these questions, it happened that 
Densdeth laughed in reply to some joke of his 
guest. 

Dcnsdeth’s smile, unless he chose to let it pass 
into a sneer, was gentlemanly and winning. A 
little incredulous and inattentive I had found it 
wlien I spoke of heroism, charity, or self-sacrifice. 
It pardoned belief in such whimsies as a juve- 
nility. His laugh, however, expressed a riper 
cynicism. It was faithless and cruel, — I liad 
sometimes thought brutally so. 

Breaking in at this moment, ratlicr loudly foi 
the public place, it seemed to strike at tlie ro 


Cl'CIL DREEME. 


71 


mantic interest I had felt in the name Cecil 
Drccme. What would a man of tlie world think 
of such idle fancies as I had indulged a})ropos of 
the painter’s door-card ? I really hoped Churm 
wculd be able to reply, 0, Dreeme ! He 
is a creature with a seedy velvet coat, frowzy 
hair, big pipe, — rank Diisseldorf. Don’t laiow 
him ! ” 

‘‘ There is a young fellow of that name in the 
building,” said Cliurm. “ I have never liappened 
to see him. Locksley says he is a quiet, gentle- 
manly youth from the country, who lives retired, 
works hard, and minds his own business.” 

Neither my friend nor I ventured upon serious 
topics for the rest of the dinner. 

‘‘ I have an errand down town,” said he. 
“ You shall walk with me, and afterwards wo 
will discuss your prospects over a cigar at Chrys- 
alis.” 

So we talked Europe — a light subject to 
Americans — until dessert was over, and tlie 
Chuzzlewit guests began to file out, wishing they 
had not taken so much pie and meringue on top 
of the salad, and had given to the Tract Society 
the two dollars now racking their several brains, 
and rioting in their several stomachs, in tlie form 
of sherry or champagne. 

Churm and I joined the procession. Wo were 
battling for our hats in the lobby with a brace of 


72 


CECIL DPvEEME. 

seedy gents whc proposed to appropriate them, 
when Densdeth came out. 

He saluted me cordially and Churm distantly. 

No love between these two. Apart from any 
moral contrast, their' temperaments were too op- 
posite to combine. Antagonistic natures do not 
necessarily make man and woman hostile, even 
when they are imprisoned for life in matrimony ; 
domestic life stirs and stirs, slow and steady, and 
at last the two mix, like the oil and mustard in 
a mayonnaise. But the more contact, the more 
repulsion, in two men of such different quality as 
Churm and Densdeth. 

Both were quiet and self-possessed, and yet it 
seemed to me that, if a thin shell of decorum and 
restraint between them should be broken by any 
outer force, the two Avould clash together like 
explosive gases, and the weaker be utterly con- 
sumed away. I had already had hints, as I have 
stated, that they had causes for dislike. I could 
not wonder, as I saw them standing side by side. 
They were as different as men could be and yet 
lie men. 

I observed them with a certain premonition 
that I was to be in some way drawn into the 
battle they must light or were fighting. With 
which captain was I to be ranged ? 

Densdeth was a man of slight, elegant, active 
figure, and of clear, colorless, olive complexion 


CECIL DREEME. 


78 


His liair was black and studio asly arranged. 
He was shaved, except a long drooping moiis* 
taclie,- — that he could not have spared ; it served 
sometimes to conceal, sometimes to emphasize, a 
sneer. His nose was a delicate aquiline, and his 
other fine-cut features corresponded. His eyes 
vt cre yellow, feline, and restless, — tlie only rest- 
less thing about him. They glanced from your 
lips to your eyes and back, while you talked 
with him, as if to catch eacli winged word, and • 
compare it wdth the expression perched above. 
Quick and sidelong looks detect a swarm of 
Pleiads where the steady gaze sees only six. 
Densdeth seemed to have learnt this lesson from 
astronomy ; he shot his glance across your face 
to catch expressions which fancied themselves 
latent. Keen eyes Densdeth’s to recognize a 
villain. 

Churm was sturdy and vigorous ; well built, 
one wmuld say, not well made ; built for use, not 
made for show. His Saxon coloring of hair and 
comj)lcxion were almost the artistic contrast to 
Densdeth’s Oriental hu(?S. He wore his hair and 
thick brown beard cut short. His features were 
all strongly marked and finished somewhat in the 
rough, not weakened by chiselling and mending. 
His eyes w'cre blue, frank, and earnest. He looked 
his man lair and square in the face, and never 
swerved until each had had his say Keen enough, 


74 


CECIL DREEAIE. 


too, Churm’s eyes. They were his lauleriis tc 
sear(4i for an honest man and friend, not for a 
rogue and tool. 

These men’s voices also proclaimed natures at 
war. 

In wild beasts the cry reveals the charactcr- 
So it docs in man, — a cross between a beast 
and a soul. If beast is keeping soul under, 
he lets the world know it in every word his 
man speaks. The snarl, the yelp, and the 
howl are all there for him tliat has ears to 
hear. If the soul in the man has good hope 
and good courage, through all his tones sound 
tlie song of hope and the paean of assured vic- 
tory. 

Churm’s voice was bold and sweet, with a 
sliarp edge. He was outspoken and incisive. 
Any mind, not muffled by moss or thicket, would 
hear itself echo when he spoke. His laugh, if it 
made free to leap out for a holiday, was a boy’s 
laugh, frank, merry, and irrepressible. Tlicre 
'wais, however, underneath all his clieerful, inspir- 
ing, and forgiving tones, a stern Rhadamanthinc 
quality, as of one to whom profound experience 
has given that rare, costly, and sorrowful right, 
— tlie right to judge and condemn. 

Densdeth spoke with a delicate lisp, or rather 
Spanisii softness. There was a snarl, however, 
beneath these mild, measured notes. He soothed 


75 


CECIL DREEME. 

you ; Imt you felt that there was a claw curled 
under the velvet. As to liis laugh, it was jackal, 
— a cruel, traitorous laugh, without sympathy or 
humor, — a sneer given voice. But this ugly 
sound it was impossible to be much with Dens- 
deth and not first echo and then adopt. 

The same general contrast of nature was visi- 
ble in the costumes of these gentlemen. Even a 
coat may beyond of the outward signs by which 
we betray the grace or disgrace that is in us. 

Churm was in fatigue dress. He looked water- 
proof, sun-proof, frost-proof. No tenderness for 
his clothes would ever check him from wading a 
gutter or storming a slum, if there were man to 
be aided or woman to be saved. He dressed as 
if life were a battle, and he were appointed to tlie 
thick of the fight, too well known a generalissimo 
to need a uniform. 

Densdeth was a little too carefully dressed. 
His clothes had a conscious air. His trousers 
hung as if they felt his eye on them, and dreaded 
a beating if they bagged. His costume was gen- 
erally quiet, so severely quiet that it was evident 
he desired to be flagrant, and obeyed tact rather 
than taste. In fact, taste always hung out a pro- 
^ test of a diamond stud, or an elaborate chain or 
eye-glass. Still these were not glaring errors, 
and Densdeth’s distinguished air and marked 
Orientalism of face made a touch of splendor 
tolerable. 


76 


CECIL DREEME. 


I sketch a few of the external traits of these 
two. I might continue the contrast at length. 
Even at that period of my acquaintance they had 
become representative personages to me. And 
now, as I look back upon that time, I find that I 
divined them justly. They in some measure per- 
sonified to me the two opposing forces that war 
for every soul. 

As they bowed coldly to each other in the hall 
of the Chuzzlewit, and turned to me, I seemed at 
once to become conscious of their rival influences. 
My dual nature felt the dual attraction. 

“ Glad to see you again, Byng,” said Dens- 
deth, offering his hand. “ Will you walk into 
my parlor ? I am quartered here for a day or 
two. Come ; I can give you an honest cigar and 
a thimbleful of Chartreuse.” 

“ Thank you,” I replied. “ Another time, if - 
you please. Just now I am off with Mr. Churm.” 

“ Au revoir I ” says Densdeth. ‘‘ But let me 
not forget to mention that I have seen our friends, 
Mr. and Miss Denman. They hope for a call 
from you, for old friendship’s sake. If I had 
known of your former intimacy there, we should 
have had another tie on board tlie steamer.” 

His yellow eyes came and went as he spoke, 
exploring my face to discover, ‘‘ Wliat has Churm 
told liim of me and Clara Denman ? What has 
he heard of that tragedy ? Something, but how 
much ? ” 


CECIL DREEME. 


77 


‘ • Miss Deuman will be at home to-morrow, at 
uiie,” ho continued. “ I took the liberty to 
promise that you would accept my guidance, and 
pay your respects at that hour.” 

‘‘ Foil are wery kind,” I of course said. ‘‘ 1 
will go with pleasure.” 

“ I will call for you, then, at Chrysalis. I 
heard liere at the hotel-office that you had moved 
into Harry Stilldeet’s grand don. I felicitate 
you.” 

You have a den adjoining,” said I, my tone 
no doubt betraying some curiosity. 

“ 0, my lumber-room,” he replied, carelessly. 
“ I find it quite a convenience. A nomad bach- 
elor like myself needs some place to store what 
traps he cannot carry in his portmanteau.” 

‘‘ Well, Mr. Churm,” said I, as we walked off 
together ; “ you see I cannot evade Densdeth. 
He is my first acquaintance at home, my next- 
door neiglibor in Clirysalis, and now he takes the 
superintendence of my re-introduction to old 
friends. Fate seems determined that I shall 
clash against him. I am not sure whether my 
self is elastic enough to throw him off, even if 
I desire to.” 

“ No self gets a vigorous repelling power until 
it is condensed by suffering.” 

“ Then [ would rather stay soft and yieldiiig,” 
said I, lightly. But, Mr. Churm, before 1 call 


78 


CECIL DREEME. 


upon the Denmans, you must tell me the whole 
story of their tragedy, otherwise I may wound 
them ignorantly.” 

I desire to do so, my dear boy, for many 
reasons. We will have a session presently at 
your rooms, and talk that history through.” 

He walked on down Broadway, silent and 
moody. 

“ Observe where I lead you,” said he, turning 
to the east through several mean, narrow streets. 

Seems to me,” said I, ‘‘ you have fouler 
slums here than Europe tolerates.” 

“ If you could see the person I am going to 
visit, you would understand why. If men here 
must skulk because they are base, or guilty, or 
imbecile, they strive to get more completely out 
of sight, and shelter themselves behind more 
stenches than peojde do in countries where the 
social system partially justifies degradation. But 
here we are, Byng. I have brought you along 
with a purpose.” 

Churm stopped in front of a mean, frowzy row 
of brick buildings. He led the way through a 
most unsavory alley into a court, or rather space, 
serving as a well to light the rear range of a 
tenenient-liouse. In a guilty-looking entry of 
this back building Clmrm left me, while he en- 
teroi a wretclicd room. 

It Is no part of my purpose to describe this 


CECIL DREEME. 


79 


dismal place, or to moralize over it. Perhaps 
at that time in my life I had too little pity 
for poverty, and only a healtliy disgust for filth. 
I remained outside, smoking and listening to 
the jackal-voices of the young barbarians crying 
for supper from cellar to garret of the building. 

“ You will remember this spot,” said Churm, 
issuing after a few moments, and leading the 
way out again. 

‘‘ My poor victimized nose will have hard 
work to forget it.” 

‘‘ And the name Towner,” my friend con« 
tinned. 

“ Also Towner,” I rejoined. And probably 
my tone expressed tlie query, Who is he ? ” 

‘‘ Towner is the tarnished reverse of that bur 
nished medal Densdeth, — Densdeth without gild 
ing.” 

“ Did Dens'^eth fling him away into this hole ? ” 

‘‘ He is lying perdu here, hid from Densdeth 
and the world. He has been a clerk, agent, 
tool, slave, of the Great Densdeth. The poor 
wretch has a little shrivelled bit of conscience 
left. It twinges him sometimes, like a dying 
jiei ve in a rotten tooth. He sent for me the 
other day, by Locksley, saying that he was sick, 
poor, and penitent for a villany he had done 
ao’ainst me, and wanted to confess before ho 
died, and before Densdeth could 2ind him again 


80 


CECIL DREEME. 


This is my third visit. He cannot make up hi?* 
impotent mind to confession. He must speak 
soon, or concealment will kill him. I am to 
come down to-night at eleven and watch with 
him.” 

“ Till when you will watch with me in Chrys- 
alis.” 

“ Yes ; and now I suppose you wonder why 
I brought you here.” 

‘‘ To teach me that republics are unsa,vory ? ” 

‘‘ Perhaps I want you to take an interest in 
this poor devil, in case I should be absent ; per- 
haps I wish you to see the result of the Dens- 
deth experiment, when it does not succeed ; 
perhaps — well, Byng, you will promise me to 
expend a little of your superabundant vitality 
on my patient, if he needs it ? ” 

‘‘Certainly; but understood, that you' pay to 
have me deodorized and disinfected after each 
visit.” 

I could not give a cheerful turn to the talk. 
Churm walked on, silent and out of spirits. 


CHAPTER VI. 


CHUEM AS CASSANDRA. 

We turned from Broadway down Cornwallis 
Place, parallel to Mannering Place, and entered 
Chrysalis by the side door upon tliat street. 

I have a word to say to the janitor,” said 
Churm. * 

Pretty Dora Locksley admitted us to the snug- 
gery. Lighted up, it was even more cheerful 
-than when I saw it with Stillfleet. The table 
was set for supper. The bright teapot, tlie bright 
plates, the bright knives and forks, had each its 
own briglit reflection of the gas-light to contrib- 
ute to the general illumination. 

Mrs. Locksley, the bright cause of all this bril 
liancy, was making the first cut into a pumpkin- 
pie of her own confection, as we entered. It was 
the ideal pumpkin-pie. Its varnished surface 
shone with a rich, mellow glow, and all about its 
marge a ruffle of paste of fairest complexion 
lifted, like the rim of delighted hills about a 
happy valley. As Mrs. Locksley’s knife cleft the 
soil of this sweet vale, fragrant incense steamed 


82 


CECIL DREEME. 


up into tlie air. What nose would not sniff 
away all remembrance of the mephitic odors it 
had inhaled, to entertain this fresh, wholesome 
emanation ? Mine did at once. I felt myself 
deodorized from the sour souvenirs of Towner’s 
slum. The moral atmosphere, too, of this honest, 
cheerful, simple home-scene acted as a moral 
disinfectant. The healthy picture hung itself 
u}) in a good light in my mental gallery. It was 
well it should be there. Chrysalis owed me this, 
as a contrast to the serious pictures awaiting me 
along its dus*ky halls, as a foil to a sombre tableau 
hid behind the curtain at the vista’s end. 

Mrs. Locksley offered a quadrant of her pie to 
Churm. 

“ I resign in Mr. Byng’s favor,” said he. 

“ Hail Columbia ! ” cried I, accepting the resig- 
nation ; and as I eat I felt my Americanism re- 
vive. 

“ I ’ve just seen Towner again,” Churm says, 

and am to sit up with him.” 

‘‘ Poor fellow ! ” said Locksley. Has he any 
chance ? ” 

“ Poor fellow, indeed ! ” cried Mrs. Locksley, 
in wrath, evidently sham. ‘‘ Dont waste ‘ poors ’ 
on him, William. Did n’t he as much as kill mj 
poor sister, and ruin us ? ” 

“You don’t look very ruinous, Molly. No; 
you ’re built up fresh by losing money, and not 


CECIL DREExME. 8o 

having an Irish Biddy to feed you on mud-pies. 
We muvSt not bear malice, wife ! ” 

“ We don’t, William. And the proof is -his 
jelly I ’ve made for him.” 

“ Right ! ” says Locksley. ‘‘ But, Mr. Cburm,” 
he continued, and here his bristly aspect intensi- 
fied, as if a foe were at hand, “ Mr. Densdeth is 
back in the steamer. He ’s been here to day, 
asking for Towner. But he got nothing out of 
me.” 

“ The sight of Densdeth would kill the man. 
He sliivers at the mere thought of his old master. 
We must keep him hid until lie dies or gets some 
life into him. Good night.” 

A trusty fellow, the janitor,” said I, as we 
walked up stairs. 

“ Trusty as a steel bolt on an oak door.” 

“ He will keep my secrets, if I have any, as 
one of his collegians ? He won’t stand on the 
corner and button-hole everybody with the news 
tliat I never go to bed, and hardly ever get up ? 
He won’t put iii}' doeds or misdeeds in the news- 
papers ? ” 

“ No. If you should say to him, ‘ Locksley, 
I ’ve got a maggot in my head. I am going to 
lock myself up in Rubbish Palace and train it. 
I want to hibernate for three months and not 
see a soul, except you with my meals. Let 
me be forgotten ! ’ Locksley would reply, ‘ Very 


84 


CECIL DREEMK 


well, sir ! ’ And you would be as secluded as 
if you bad gone to Kamtschatka.” 

“You speak as if such things happened in 
Chrysalis.” 

“ They might, under Locksley.” 

“ How refreshing,” said I, “ to find such a 
place and such a person plump in the middle 
of New York ! But tell me, what is Locksley 
to Towner ? ” 

“ Towner married our janitor’s wife’s' sister. 
Locksley is a very clever macliinist. He was 
a prosperous locksmith, manufacturing locks of 
a patent of his own, until Towner persuaded 
him to indorse his paper. Towner had some 
fine scheme by which he meant to make him- 
self independent of Hensdeth, and so escape 
from his service. His old master had become 
hateful to him. But Densdeth did not propose 
to let his serf go free. He made it his business, 
so both the men think, to spoil the specula- 
tion, and ruin the two, financially. Locksley 
lost ev-erything. I got him this place, until he 
could look about and take a fresh start.” 

I opened my door. From tlie back of the 
sombre apartment, the great black stove, with 
its isinglass door, like a red Cyclops eye, stared 
at tlie strangers. The gas-light from the streol 
shone faint through tlie narrow windows. 

“ Ghostly scenery ! ” said I, glancing about 


CECIL DREEME. 


85 


The casts and busts stood white and ghostly 
in the corners, and by the door of the lumber- 
room a suit of armor, holding a spiked mace 
in its fingerless gauntlets, reflected the dull glow 
of the fire-light. 

“ Tliose great carved arm-chairs,” said Churm, 
‘‘ stand as if the shadows of so many black-robed 
inquisitors had just quitted them.” 

“ What a chamber this would have been,” 
1 said, “ for the sittings of a secret tribunal, a 
Yelimgericht ! Imagine yourself and me en- 
tl ironed, with crapes over our faces, and Locks- 
ley, armed with one of these halberds of Still- 
fleet’s, leading in the culprit.” 

“ Have you selected your culprit ? ” 

“ Well, Densdeth is convenient. He might 
be brought in from that dark room of his, next 
door. The scene becomes real to me. Come, 
Mr. Churm, you shall pronounce sentence. Put 
on the black cap, and speak ! ” 

“ I condemn him to bless as many lives as 
he has cursed.” 

“ A gentle penalty ! ” said I. But it may 
take time. Who knows but you are making a 
Wandering Jew of our handsome Absalomitish 
friend ? Fiat lux ! ” I continued, striking a 
match, and lighting my chandelier. Vanish 
the Vehm and the halberd ! Appear the nine 
teentii century and the cigar ! Take oiie ! ” 


86 


CECIL DREEIVIE. 

Churm smoked for some time in grave silence. 
At last he began. 

“ I loved your father, Robert, like a brother. 
For his sake and your own, I wish to be your 
friend.” 

His benignant manner, even more than the 
words, touched me. I felt my eyes fill with 
tears. 

Thank you,” said I, for my father’s sake 
and my own. I yearn, as only a fatherless man 
can, for such a friend as you may be. I hoped 
I might count upon you.” 

We have met but those few times in Europe 
since your boyliood. I think I know something 
of you. Still I may as well have more facts. 
What do you think of yourself? Person and 
character, now, in a paragraph.” 

“Person you see ! ” said I, standing up, straight 
as an exclamation-point. “ Harry Stillfleet made 
me parade this morning, and pronounced me rea- 
sonably fit for service, legs, lungs, and looks. 
Character, — as to my character, it is not yet 
compacted enough for inspection. My soul grows 
slow as a century-plant. You can hardly look 
for blossoms at the end of the first twenty-five 
years. I am a fellow of good intentions, — that 
is the top of my claim. But whether I am to be 
a pavior of hell or a promenader of heaven, is as 
hell or heaven pleases. It seems to me that my 


CECIL DREEME. 


87 


allotted method of forming myself is by passing 
out of myself into others. I am dramatic. I 
adopt tlie natures of my companions, and act as 
if I were they. When I have become, in my 
proper person, a long list of dramatis personcc^ 
I shall be ready to live my life, be it tragedy, 
comedy, or romance. And there you have me, 
Mr. Churm, in a rather lengthy paragraph ! ’’ 

I understand. And now you have come 
home, a working-man, who wishes ^ se ranker’' 

I should like to find my place.” 

“ Your place to live you have found already. 
Your place to labor will not be hard to find. 
Capable men of your trade are in demand. I 
have no doubt I can settle you to-morrow.” 

“ You are a friend indeed,” said I. 

‘‘Home and handicraft disposed of ; — and now 
this young absentcfe, with his place to live and 
his place to labor arranged, is beginning to tliink 
of the other want, namely, somebody to love. 
How is that, Byng ? ” 

“ ‘ Hoc erat in votis ” said I, bashfully. 

‘‘ It was in mine, when I was, like you, im- 
pressible, affectionate, trustful, and in my twen- 
ties. My forties liavc a confidence and a special 
warning to offer you, Robert, if you will accept 
it.” 

‘‘ No mature man has ever given me the bene- 
fit of Ills experience. Yours will be most pro- 

j) 


Clous. 


88 


CECIL DREEME. 


‘‘ I strip off the battens, and slide back the 
hatches, and show you a cell in my heart which 
I thought never to uncover. But there comes a 
time, after a man’s grief has become historical 
to himself, when he owes the lesson of his own 
tragedy to some other man. You are the man 
to whom my story belongs.” 

‘‘ Wliy am I the one ? ” 

“ Tliat you must discover for yourself. I tell 
you my tale. You must adapt it to your own 
circumstances. You must put in your own set 
of characters from the people you meet. I point 
a moral for you ; I have no right to impale others 
upon it.” 

‘‘You might misunderstand and wrong them ? ” 

“ I might. This bit of personal history I am 
about to give you explains my connection with 
the Denmans.” 

“ It will lead you then to the mystery ( f Clara’a 
death ? ” 


“ Yes,” 


CHAFTER YU. 


CHURM’S STORY. 

Churm took refuge wJth his cigur for a iiio- 
mciit. 

“ Twenty-four years ago/' he began, jerking 
his sliort sentences away as if each was an arro\^ 
in his heart, — “ twenty-four yeo.rs ago I was 
a young man about New York. There came 
beautiful girl from the country. Poor ! She had 
rich friends in town. They wanted a flower for 
their parlors. Tliey took her. Emma -Emma 
Page was her name.” 

He repeated the name, as if k was barbed and 
would not come from him without an agonized 
effort. 

‘‘ She charmed all,” he continued. ‘‘ Slie fas 
ciliated me. Strangely, strangely. I will no* 
analyze her power. You will see what know? 
edge it implied. I was a simple, eager fellow 
Eager to love, as you are.” 

“ 1 only said willing^'’ I interjected. 

The wish soon ripens to frenzy. Presently 
the lady and 1 were betrothed. I was a passion 


90 


CECIL DREEME. 


ate lover. You would not tliink it to look at me 
now, with this coat and tliese clodhopper shoes.’’ 
lie forced a smile. 

“ Shaggy jackets and thick shoes with an or* 
chestral creak are de rig'uetir for lovers now,” 
rejoined I, trying to lighten the growing gloom 
of Churm’s manner. 

“ We wore smooth black, and paper soles,” 
said he. “ Ah, well ! I was h loyal, undoubting 
heart. I loved and I trusted wholly.” 

lie paused, and drew his cigar to a fresh light 
Then, as he remained silent and grew moodier, I 
recalled him to the subject, and asked, ‘‘ You 
lost her ? By death ? ” 

“By death, Byng? A^es, by the death of my 
love. She stabbed it. Shall I tell you how ? 
Poor child ! one single poisoned look of hers, one 
single phrase that proved a tainted nature, stabbed 
and poisoned my love dead, dead, dead.” 

Again he was silent. Pity would not let me 
speak. 

“ This may seem disloyalty,” he by and by re- 
sumed. “ But she is dead and pardoned long 
ago. I must be loyal to the living. A'cu may 
run the risk I ran. I give to you, to you only, 
to you peculiarly, the warning of my misery. If 
you are ever harmed as 1 was, you will owe the 
fcune to your son, or your friend.” 

I was full of youthful, unshaken self-coiifi- 


CECIL DREEME. 


91 


dence. I saw no danger, anticipated no wound. 
I could not make the personal anplication 
Churm suggested. I listened, greatly touched 
and interested, but without foreboding. 

“ A look and a word,” Churm began again, 
seemed to flash upon me the conviction that 
tlic woman I loved was sullied. A foul-minded 
man may do foul wrong by such a fancy. My 
miiuFwas pure. My first impulse was to rebel 
against the agonizing doubt, and be truer and 
tenderer than before. You comprehend the feeb 
ing ? ” 

Thoroughly. Your impulse would be mine.” 
“ ‘ Love,’ ” said 1 to myself, ‘ tests love,’ 
Ciiurm continued. “ ‘ I mistrust, because I do not 
love enough. I must beware of being personally 
base and cruelly unjust to her. IMy suspicion 
shall 1)0 the evanescent dream of an unwhole- 
some instant, — like 0})helia’s song.’ But still 
the anguish and the dread stayed in my heart. 
What could I do ? Wait ? Watch ? Make my- 
self a spy to examine this seeming sully, and find 
it an indelible stain ? Uncover the bad side of 
my nature, apply it to hers, and study the kind 
and degree of the electricity evoked by the con 
tact 1 Should I protect myself by any such base- 
ness ? While these thoughts were tangling in my 
brain, an outer force cut the knot.” 

Some one spilt the jihiltor,” said I, thinking 
of the scene over Densdeth’s wine. 


CECIL DREEME. 


^2 


“Denman was my unconscious ally,” Cliurm 
continued, without noticing the interruption 
“ Denman saved me from the worst, the bitterest 
fate that can befall a true man, — to marry a 
woman whose truth and purity he can allow him* 
self to doubt.” 

“ Bitter indeed ! A blight of all the bloom 
and liarvest of a life ! ” said I ; — so fancy had 
tauglit me. 

“ Ah, yes ! as the ‘ marriage of true minds ’ alone 
gives fragrance and ripeness. I have missed the 
harvest, 1 escaped tlie blight. Denman, rich and 
handsome, with life clear before him, came back 
from Europe. Wealth liad illusions for Emma 
Page. She was new to it. I was not poor ; but 
my wealth was only in posset 

“ Few divine a young man’s I fear,” said 
1, as he paused to whilf. 

“ Posse must be put into a pipe and blown into 
an illustrious bubble, before the world perceives 
the he rejoined. “ But inventive power is 

the best capital. Mine has made me far richer 
than Denman. Well; he arrived at the moment 
of my agonizing doubt. Miss Page was The 
Beauty of our day. He was charmed. His 
cruder vision admired the rose and did not miss 
the dew-drop. She presently allowed me to per- 
ceive that he was to be my substitute. I will not 
tire you with the detail of the' stranding and 
wreck of our engagement.” 


CECIL DREEME. 


98 


‘‘No?” said I. “I begin to identify myself 
strangely with your story.” 

“ No. No detail ! To recall talks and looks 
and tones would be more tragedy than I could 
bear, even to make my story sharper. So our 
engagement ended. That slight perfidy was noth- 
ing. My wrong was deeper.” 

“Ah, poor Emma!” he continued, “forgiven 
long ago ! That stain of hers, whether it were 
taint of being, or fault of nurture, or rash or 
sober sin, killed faith and hope in me for a time.” 

He paused again, and the blank seemed to 
symbolize a blank in his life. 

“ It was a wide gulf to swim over,” he said. 
“ Dark waters, Robert ! Dark and broad ! and I 
have seen many souls of men and women drown, 
that liad not force to buffet through, or patience 
to drift across. But I escaped, and, having paid 
the price of suffering witliout despair, tlie larger 
hopes and liigher faiths were revealed to me.” 

lie struck aside the smoke with a strong, swim- 
mer’s gesture of the arm, — a forceful character, 
as even his motions showed. 

“This is sacred confidence,. Robert,” he said. 
“ I give it to you, as a father warning a son.” 

“ And as a son I take and treasure it.” 

“ Denman,” Cliurm went on, “ did not mind 
the wrong 1)3 might have been doing me, had my 
ove not already perished. Denman never heeds 


94 


CECIL DEEOIE. 


any one between him and his object. He looks 
at the prospect ; what is the fly on the pane to 
him ? hie has been walking over others all liis 
life, trampling them if they lifted up their heads. 
But a selfish man gets himself sent first to Cov- 
entry, and then, if he does not mend, to St. Hel- 
ena. Denman, a great merchant by inheritance, 
has gained money-power at the cost of moral 
weight. Our best men look coldly on him. He 
knows it, and grasps at bigger wealth to crush 
criticism. It is the old storv, — vaulting ambi- 
tion, the Russian campaign. Denman’s gigantic 
scliemes are the terror, the wonder, and the ad- 
miration of Wall Sti’eet. But he seems to a cool 
student a desperate man. It saddens me to 
meet him now, — aged, worn, anxious, hardly 
daring to look me in the face, and, as I fear, 
wiiolly in the power of Densdeth.” 

“ Densdeth ! ” cried I. “ Who and what is 
Densdeth ? Does he hold every man’s leading- 
strings to the Devil ? ” 

“What is Densdeth? My story will give you 
a fact or two in answer to the question. I go on 
witli it rapidly. 

“ Emma Page married Denman. 

“ Slie tried splendor for a year. She was the 
beautiful wife of the richest young man in town. 

“At the year’s end, her daugiitcr Emma was 
born. 


CECIL DREEME. 


95 


“ A (jhild is a terrible vengeance to a mother 
who has ever lowered her womanhood, by thought 
or act. What tortures she would have endured, 
— so she now too late thinks, — if she could 
have purged and made anew the nature she has 
transmitted to an innocent being ! But there it 
lies before her in the cradle, the embodiment of 
her inmost thought. There lies the heir, and the 
waste of his heritage is irreclaimable.” 

‘‘ Don’t be so cruelly stern,” said I. “ You 
out-Herod Herod, in the converse. You massa- 
cre the Innocents because tliey are guilty. This 
is the old dead dogma of original sin, redivivus 
and rampant.” 

No ; the dogma is dead, and science handles 
the facts without the trammels of an impious 
theory. Life cures, and Death renews. But Life 
should be a feast, not a medicine. 

“ Emma’s birth,” he continued, transformed 
Mrs. Denman. For a year she was a faithful 
mother. 

“ Denman did not like his wife so well in thif 
capacity. They diverged widely. To be hand- 
some for him and showy for the public was his 
notion of Mrs. Denman’s office. The second 
year flowed rough. 

“ At the end of it, Clara was born, the child 
of a woman cliastcncd and purified. 

‘‘ A fortnight after her birth, Denman came to 


me. 


96 


CECIL DREEME. 


‘ My wife is desperately ill,’ said he. ‘ She 
wishes to see you.’ 

‘‘ I went calmly to this farewell interview with 
my old love. The husband seemed to abdicate 
in my behalf. 

‘‘ ‘ I am to die,’ she said, almost gayly. ‘ I 
have sent for you, because I trust you wholly. 
Dear friend, here are my daughters ! Befriend 
them for my sake 1 I feel that you will under- 
stand the yearnings of young souls. Make them 
what you once hoped of me ! Will you not be 
the father of their spiritual life ? Forgive me, 
dear friend, for the old wrong, for the old 
wrongs! Prove that you ]'ave pardoned me by 
loving mine. Good-bye.’ ” 

Churm was silent awhile. 

He lighted a fresh cigar and smoked steadily. 
The smoke lifted slowly in the still room, and 
hung in wreaths overhead. He sat looking 
vaguely into the. shifting cloud. 


CHAPTER Till. 


CLARA DENMAN, DEAD. 

1 WATCHED Cliurm, as he snfoked. 

Love, dlslcyaltj, penitence, death, — were these 
all unrealities, that he could speak of them in his 
own history so calmly ? Could a man be hurt as 
he had been, and overlive unscarred ? I had 
hoard cool men say, that “ the tragedies of this 
life become the comedies of another, and that we 
should so7ne time smile to recall our cruellest 
battles here, as now we smile to watch the jousts 
of flies in a sunbeam.” Churm’s tragedy was 
still tragedy \p him. He had begun to recite it 
with evident pain. But the pain of his tone be- 
came indifference before he closed ; and now he 
sat there smoking, as if he had related gravely, 
but without emotion, the mishaps of some siran- 
ger. 

I wondered. 

He looked through the smoke, caught my 
wondering eye, smiled soberly, and said : Such 
an experience as I have described is like a shirt 
of Nessus, which one wears until the prickles of 

5 o 


98 


CECIL DREEME. 


its poisoned serge have thoroughly toughened his 
skin. When it ceases to gall, he strips it olf and 
hangs it by the highway for whoever runs to 
take ; or if he finds some sensitive friend, like 
yau, Robert, he lays it upon his shoulders, and 
says, ‘ Wear this ! The edge of its torture is 
gone. It will harden you for the garment the 
Fates are weaving for you.’ ” 

‘‘ Dear me ! ” said I, shrugging my shoulders. 

Have I got to stand haircloth and venom ? 
Well, if that is the common lot, and I cannot 
escape, I am much obliged to you for trying to 
make me pachydermatous. But you have not 
succeeded very well. The story of another’s pain 
makes my heart softer.” 

‘‘ Sympathy for others is stout armor for one’s 
self. But, Byng, you have heard the first trage- 
dy of the series ; listen to the second ! ” 

‘‘ Tlie second ! Is there a third ?v Is the series 
a trilogy ? ” 

“ The third is unwritten. The march of events 
has paused while Densdeth was off. And to-day 
he steps from behind the curtain with you, a now 
character, half inclined to be his satellite. Per- 
haps you have a part to play.” 

There was a vein of seriousness in this seem- 
ing banter. 

“ Perhaps ! ” said I, puffing a ring of smoke 
away. ‘‘ But pray go on. I am eager to hear 
the Vhole.” 


I 

I 


CECIL DREEME. 


99 


“ After his wife’s death, Denman said to me, 
’ Mr. Cliurm, Emma told me that you were will 
ing, for old friendship’s sake, to give an eye to my 
two poor girls’ education. Suppose you take the 
whole responsibility off my hands. I will make 
their million apiece for them. You shall teach 
them how to spend it.’ I gladly accepted this 
godfatherly post. The girls became to me as my 
own children. 

‘‘ I shall say nothing to you,” Churm here 
interjected, ‘‘ of Emma.” 

‘‘ Why not ? ” I asked. 

You will see her. Judge for yourself! 
Clara you will never see. Of her I will speak. 
But first what do you remember of the sisters ? ” 

“ They were my pets when I was a school-boy. 
Emma I recollect as a lovely, fascinating, caress- 
ing little thing. Clara was shy and jealous, full 
of panics that people disliked her for her ugliness. 
I might have almost forgotten them, except for a 
sweet, simple, girlish letter they jointly wrote me 
upon my father’s death. It touched me greatly.” 

“ I remember,” said Churm. “ Clara con- 
sulted me as to its propriety. Dear child 1 
sympathy always swept away her reserve. But 
you speak of her ugliness, Robert ? ” 

She was original, unexpected ; but certainly 
without beauty. In fact, ugly and awkward, 
beside Emma.” 


100 


CECIL DREEME. 


She became beautiful to me by the light that 
was in her. I could not criticise the medium 
through which shone so fair a soul. She edu- 
cated me ; not I her. She illuminated for me 
the new truths, she interpreted the new oracles; 
and so I have not fallen old and staid among 
my rudiments, as childless men, with the best 
intentions, may.” 

‘‘ You give me,” said I, a feeling of per- 
sonal want and personal robbery by her death.” 

‘‘ Fresh, earnest, unflinching soul ! ” Churm 
sadly continued. ‘‘ How she flashed out of 
being all the false laws that check the mind’s 
divine liberty ! Not the laws of refinement and 
high-breeding ; they, the elastic by-laws of the 
fundamental law of love, are easy harness to 
the freest soul. In another house than Den- 
man’s, among allies, not foes, what a noble poem 
her life would have been ! ” 

Foes ! ” said I. “Was there no love for 
her at home ? ” 

“ Denman admired his daughters. Love re- 
mains latent in him. He has not outgrown 
his passion for the grosser fictions, wealth, power, 
show.” 

“ But Emma ! The two sisters did not love 
one another ? If not, where was the fault ? ” 

“ Nature made them dissonant.” 

“ Their foster-father could not harmonize 
them ? ” 


CECIL DEEEME. 


101 


I did my best, Byiig. But young women 
need a mother. I suppose the mothers in so- 
ciety shrug up their shoulders, when they talk 
of Clara’s disappearance and death, and say, 
‘ What could you expect of a young person, 
whose nurse, governess, and chaperon was that 
odd Mr. Churm?”’ 

‘‘ You were absent when she disappeared ? ” 

‘‘ Away from my post. In England. On soma 
patent business.” 

“ Pity ! ” 

I curse myself when I think of it. About 
this misery, Robert, I have not learned to bo 
calm.” 

“You did not approve her proposed marriage 
with Densdeth, — that I am sure.” 

“ I knew nothing of it.” 

“ Wliat ! your ward, your child, did not write, 
did not consult you on so grave a matter ? ” 

“ Her letters had been constant. They sud- 
denly ceased. Her last had been a pleading 
cry to me to succor her father against his grow- 
ing intimacy with Densdeth. I wrote that I 
would despatch my business, and hasten home. 
I never heard again. There was foul play.” 

“ Suppression of letters ? ” 

“ Yes ; or I was belied to her.” 

“ Such a woman would not lightly abandon 
a faith.” 


102 


CECIL DREEME. 


Only some villanons treason could destroy 
her faith in me. And such I do not doubt 
there has been. I make no loose charges. But 
why was I kept in the dark ? 

‘‘No rumor of the marriage reached you ? 

“ A rumor merely. Do you know Yau 
Beester ? ” 

“ That banking snob who tries to be a swell ? 
a fellow who talks pro-slavery and fancies it 
aristocracy ? Yes ; I was bored with him once 
at a dinner in Paris.” 

“Van Beester was put in my state-room on 
board the steamer when I returned. He had 
been in England, consummating a railroad job. 
The old story. Eight per cent third mortgage 
bonds, convertible. Enormous land grant. Road 
running over Noman’s Land into Nowhere. One 
of Densdeth’s schemes. Denman also had an 
interest.” 

“ A swindle ? Something Muddefontaineisli ? ” 

“ 0 no ! Noman’s Land, the day the road 
was done, would become Everybody’s Farm. No- 
where would back into the wilderness. Up would 
sprout the metropolis of Somewhere. Swindle, 
Robert ? Your term is crude.” 

“ I suppose Van Beester did not offer it to the 
English gudgeons under that name.” 

“ It was a mighty pretty bait for them, — two 
‘YiUliors in savory portions, a thousand each. J 


CECIL DREEME. 


103 


I forget ’whether some large gudgeon’s gills had 
I taken the whole at one gulp ; or whether a shoal 
I of small fry had nibbled the worms off the bob. 
! But the whole loan had been stomached in Lon 
i don, and Yan Beester was going home in high 
I feather.” 

A blatant nuisance, of course. And you 
I could not abate or escape him.” 

' ‘‘No; unless I shoved him through our port- 

hole, or slipped through myself. Densdeth was 
I the man’s hero. He could never talk without 
; parading Densdeth. ‘ Such talents for finance ! ’ 
he would exclaim. ‘ Such knowledge of men ! 
Such a versatile genius ! Billiards or banking, 
all one to him ! Never loses a bet ; never fails 
in a project ! Such a glass of fashion ! Such a 
favorite with the fair sex ! ’ ” 

“ Pah ! ‘ Fair sex ! ’ I can fancy the loatli- 

some fellow’s look and tone,” I exclaimed. 

“ Then, in a pause of his sea-sickness,” Churm 
continued, “ he spoke of the Denmans. ‘ Mr. 
Denman so princely ! Daughters so charming ! 
For his part he admired Emma,’ — ‘ Emma,’ the 
scrub called her. ‘ But then there was some- 
thing very attractive, very exciting, about Clara, 
and he didn’t wonder that Densdetli had selected 
/i6/', — lucky girl ! ’ ‘ What do you mean ? ’ cried 
I, appalled. ‘ Don’t you know ? ’ said the fellow 
chuckling over his bit of fasliionable intelligence 


104 


CECIL DREEME. 


‘ I have it from the best authority, Densdeth him- 
self. Here is his letter. I got it the morning 
we sailed. He is to be married the twenty-third 
Blow, breezes ! and we shall get there in time for 
tlie wedding.’ ” 

“ You could interpret her pleading cry, now,” 
said I. 

‘‘ I seem to hear it repeated in every blast: 
‘ Help, dear friend, dear father, — for my moth- 
er’s sake ! ’ A maddening voyage that was ! Dark 
waters, Robert ! I shall hate the insolent monot 
ony of ocean all my days. I could do nothing 
but walk the deck and tally the waves, cr stand 
over the engine and count the turns.” 

‘‘ People would laugh at a fellow of my age,” 
said I, “ for such conduct. It is lover-like.” 

“ I loved Clara, as if she were spirit of my 
spirit. When the pilot boarded us, before da,wii 
on the twenty-third, I was up chafing about the 
ship. He handed me his newspaper. The first 
thing I saw was Clara Denman’s name among 
the deaths.” 

“ Cruel ! ” exclaimed I. 

“ I thanked God for it. Better death than 
that marriage ! ” 

“ There is still something incomprehensible to 
me in your horror of Densdeth. I only half feel 
it myself ; Stillfleet more than half feels it. Whaf 
is it ? What is he ? ” 


CECIL DREEME. 


105 


“We will talk of him another time,” Churm 
replied. “ Now I must hasten on. I found, as 
I said, Clara’s name among the deaths, and inside 
the paper a confused story of her disappearance 
and drowning. 

“ I was so eager to hear more, that I smug- 
gled myself ashore in the health-officer’s gig, 
and took the quarantine ferry-boat to town, 
for speed. While I was looking for a hack at 
the South Ferry, the return coaches of a funeral 
to Greenwood drove off a boat just come into the 
slip. 

“ In the foremost coach I saw the Denmans 
and Densdeth. 

“ I pulled open the door and sprang in. 

“ I can never forget Denman’s look when he 
saw me. He blenched and shrank into his corner 
of the carriage, cowed. 

“ There sat Densdeth, colorless and impassive, 
opposite me. By my side was Emma, weeping 
under a heavy veil, and Denman, with a mean 
and guilty look, beside her. 

“ ‘ It is not my fault,’ Denman said, feebly 
stretching out both his hands, as if he expected 
a blow from me. ‘ I acted for the best, as 1 
thought, so help me God ! ’ 

“ Densdeth interposed. His smooth, cool man- 
ner always puts roughness in the wrong. 

“ ‘ This is a sad pleasure, Mr. Chyrm,’ said 


106 


CECIL DREEME. 


he. ‘If we had looked for your return, wo would 
hare deferred this -sorrowful ceremony.’ 

“ ‘ Denman ! ’ said 1. 

Ho started, and held out his hands in vag-ue 
terror. 

“ ‘ Denman ! ’ 1 repeated. ‘ Here has been 
some crime. What have you done with that 
innocent girl ? Who or what murdered her ? ’ 

“ ‘ No,’ said he, drearily. ‘ She is dead. That 
is bitter enough. Not murdered ! 0, not mur- 

dered ! Do not be so harsh with an old friend ! ’ 

“ ‘ Denman,’ said I, ‘ an older friend than you 
committed her daughter into my hands on her 
death-bed. In her name I accuse you. I say, 
you have tried to crowd this poor child into a 
marriage she abhorred. I say you drove her to 
death. I say you murdered her, — you and 
Densdeth.’ 

“ He gave me a dull look, — a pitiful look, for 
tliat proud, stately man, — and turned appeal- 
ingly to his supporter. 

Mr. Churm,’ said Densdeth, ‘it is- not like 
you to talk in this hasty way. I refuse to be 
insulted. My own distress shows me how tlie 
sliock may have unbalanced you. But this heat 
and these baseless charges are poor sympathy for 
a parent, a sister, and a betrothed, coming from 
the funeral of one dear to them. Is it manly, 
Mr. Churm, to assail us ? I appeal to your real 


CECIL DREEME. 


107 


i generosity not to sharpen our grief by such cru- 
; elty.’ 

“ Of course he was right. I was a brute if 
j they were not guilty. I was silenced, not sat 
“ isfied. 

Densdeth went on, with thorough self-pos- 
i s<3ssion. The man’s olive skin is a mask to him. 

: “ ‘ You have a right, Mr. Churm,’ said he, ‘ to 

„ hear all the facts of Clara’s death. I will state 
them. Ten days ago she took a sharp fever from 
j a cold. One afternoon she became a little light- 

I ^ 

I headed. But at evening she was doing well, and 
I ill such a healthy, quiet sleep that we thought she 
I needed no watching. Indeed, we believed her 
I recovered from the trifling attack. In the morn- 
ing she was gone, — gone, and left no clew. We 
instantly organized search, with all the care that 
the tenderest affection could suggest.’ 

“ ‘ Yes, yes ! we did our best ! ’ Denman eager- 
ly interrupted. 

‘‘ ‘ Four days ago,’ continued Densdeth with- 
out pause, ‘ her body was found, floated ashore 
on Staten Island. It was disfigured by the 
chances of drowning, but there were no marks 
of injury before death. She was fully identified. 
We suppose, and the doctor concurs, that at 
night her fever and light-headedness returned, 
that she left the house, strayed toward the river, 
fell from some dock, and was drowned.’ 


t08 


CECIL DREEME. 


Denman shivered as Densdeth concluded his 
curt, business-like statement. 

‘ Yes, yes, Churm ! ’ said he again. ‘ I did 
my best. Do not say murder, again ! Do not 
be so harsh with an old friend ! Tell him, Dens- 
deth, tell him how we spent care and time and 
money to recover the poor child. Do not let 
him think anything was neglected.’ 

‘‘ He looked feebly from Densdeth to me. 
Then he turned to his daughter. 

“ ‘ Speak, Emma ! ’ said he, almost peevishly. 
‘ Why do you not help justify your father ? 
Tell Mr. Churm that your sister’s death is only 
a misery, no fault of ours.’ 

‘‘ Emma made no reply, but sobbed uncon- 
trollably behind her veil.” 

‘‘ Poor girl ! ” I interjected, as Churm paused 
to look at his watch. ‘‘ A dark beginning of 
life for her ! I pity her most tenderly.” 

“ It is almost eleven,” said Churm. “ I must 
go to my patient, Towner, without delay. And 
now I can say to you, that I believe he knows 
something of Clara’s tragedy. When he speaks, 
I shall learn where the guilt lies.” 

‘‘ You suspect guilt then ? ” I asked. “ The 
facts do not satisfy you? Have you a theory 
on the subject ? ” 

‘‘ I have no doubt the final facts are as Dens- 
deth gave them. But what arc the precedtuP 


CECIL DREEME. 


109 


fects ? What crazed my child ? What un- 
balanced her healthy organization of mind and 
body ? No trifling influenza. No bashful bridal 
panic of a girl. No, Byng ; among them, they 
had hurt her heart and soul. There is the 
murder ! Her father I believe to be in Dens 
deth’s power.” 

‘‘ How ? ” I asked. 

‘‘ How I can only divine from parallel cases. 
Denman has perhaps overstepped honesty to 
clutch wealth. Dcnsdeth knows it. Densdeth 
has said, ‘ Give me your daughter, or be posted 
as a rogue ! ’ Denman has made the common 
mistake, that, if he could elude the shame of de- 
tection, he would escape the remorse of guilt.” 

“ So they took advantage of your absence to 
use quasi force with the lady ? ” 

‘‘ Yes ; and they belied me, or Clara would 
have awaited my protection. Ah, Robert, I 
dread some crushing infamy was revealed to 
her in that house. No common shame, no com- 
mon sorrow, would have maddened her to waji- 
der otf and die. And now good night, Robert ! 
Keep this tragedy in mind — in both its parts. 
One such story, well meditated with the char- 
acters in view, may be the one needful lesson 
and warning of a life. And let the whole be 
a sacred confidence with you alone ! ” 

“ It shall be. Good night.” 


tio 


CECIL DREEME. 


He wrung my hand and went out. 

Let me recall liim as he turns away. 

A sturdy, not clumsy, man of middle lieight ; 
fair skin, ruddy, not too red ; nose resolute, not 
despotic ; firm upper lip, gentle lower ; glance 
keen, not astute, nor vulpine ; expression calm, 
not cold ; smile humorous and sympathetic ; 
voice and laugh of the heart, hearty ; a thor- 
oughly lovable man, — the man of all others 
to be husband and father. 

Besides, a man of vast ability and scope. Na- 
ture seemed to have no secrets from him. He 
handled the mechanic forces, he wielded social 
forces, with the same masterly grasp. Wher- 
ever civilization went, it bore his name as an 
inventor, an organizer and benefactor to man- 
kind. He was skill, order, and love. 

And yet he lived alone and weary ; his life, 
as he had told me to-night, all desolated by 
the shadow of a sin. 


CHAPTER IX. 


LOCKSLEY’S SCAKE. 

Churm’s steps went echoing along the corridor, 
echoing down the stairs. The front door of 
Chrysalis clanged to after him. Rumbling echoes 
of the clang marched to and fro along the halls, 
and fumbled for quiet nooks in the dark distances 
of the building. There I could hear them lie 
down to repose, and whisper, ‘ Silence.’ 

Silence and sleep reigned. 

I was little disposed to sleep. Plighted a fresh 
cigar and fell into a rcvery. 

Why, I first asked myself, had Churm so urged 
the history of his unhappy love personally upon 
me ? Why was he so earnest and emphatic in 
his warning ? The two tragedies were detached. 
He might have simply recalled the fact of his 
guardianship, and then described the fate of his 
ward. But he had gone back and forced him- 
self to uncover his w^oiind, — why ? ,Not for my 
sympathy. No ; he had outlived the need of 
sympathy. Besides, no loyal man would betray 
th3 error of a woman once loved, for pity’s sake. 


112 


CECIL DREEME. 


No ; some strong sense of duty had compelled 
him to take a father’s place, and say to me, “ Bo* 
ware ! ” 

I puzzled myself awhile, inquiring. What did 
he see in my temperament or my circumstances 
to make this warning needful ? No solution of 
the question came to me. I dismissed the sub- 
ject, and thought with a livelier interest over the 
Denman tragedy. 

I began to perceive how much I had uncon- 
sciously counted upon the friendship of the Den- 
mans. It was a rough shock to learn tliat I must 
doubt of Denman’s thorough worth. He, too, 
was a friend of my father. His was an impor- 
tant figure in the background of my boyish 
recollections. ^ A large, handsome man I remem- 
bered him, a little conscious in his bearing, but 
courteous, hospitable, open-handed, using weahb 
splendidly, — in fact, my ideal of what a rich 
man should be. It was a grave disappointment 
to me to be forced to dismiss this personage, and 
set up instead in my mind the Denman Churm 
had described. My hero was, in plain words, 
a rogue, a coward, and a slave. 

I perceived, too, that half unconsciously I had 
kept alive pretty little romantic fancies about 
Emma and Clara. Living so many years in Italy 
and France, among women with minds deflowered 
oy the confessional, and among the homely dam- 


CECIL DREEME. 


113 


sels of Germany, I was eager for the society of 
frcsli, frank, graceful, girlish girls at home. The 
Denmans had often visited my imagination, com- 
panions of my sunniest memories of childhood. 
The earliest pleasure of my return I had looked 
for in the revival of this intimacy. But now I 
found one dead mysteriously, the other’s life 
clouded by a tragedy. My pretty fancies all 
perished. 

I began to dread my interview with Emma 
Denman to-morrow. Densdetli to be my usher ! 

What if she, like her father, had deteriorated 
under Densdeth’s influence ? 

To cure myself of this sorry thought, I looked 
up among my treasures the letter which the two 
girls had written me several years ago, upon my 
father’s death. It came to me in a friendless, 
foreign land, one desolate summer, while I was 
convalescing from an attack of the same fever 
that orphaned me. 

Precious little childish epistle, now yellow with 
age ! I remembered how I read it, slowly and 
feebly, one sultry Italian day, when the sluggish 
heat lay clogged and unrippled in the streets of 
the furnace-like city. I recalled how I read it, 
pausing between tlie sentences, and feeling each 
as sweet as the cool, sootliing touch of the hand 
of love on a throbbing forehead. 

I unfolded the letter, and re-read it reverently. 


a 


114 


CECIL DREEME. 


and with a certain tragic interest. Clara was the 
scribe. These were her quaint^ careful characters, 
her timid, stiff, serious, affectionate phrases. 

I pictured to myself the two girls signing this 
sisterly missive, blushing perhaps with a maid- 
enly shyness, smiling with maidenly confidence, 
sobered by their gentle sympathy for my grief. 

Then, with a sudden shifting of the scenes, 
there came up before me a picture of the sad 
drama so lately enacted in Mr. Denman’s house. 
Clara driven to madness or despair, Emma be- 
reaved, Denman lost to self-respect, Churm be- 
lied ; and in the background a malignant shadow, 
— Densdeth. 

All at once a peremptory knock at my door 
disturbed me. 

A stout knock, thrice repeated. The visitor 
meant to be heard and answered. 

I was fresh from the French theatres, where 
three great blows behind the curtain announce 
its lifting. 

“ What ! ” thought I, “ does the drama march ? 
Is a new act beginning ? Am I playing a part in 
the Denman trilogy ? And what new charactei 
appears at midnight in the dusky halls of Chrys- 
alis ? Who follows Densdeth and Churm ? Who 
precedes Emma Denman ? ” 

I opened the door, wdde and abruptly. 

Locksley stood there, with fist uplifted to pound 


CECIL DREEME. 


115 


The sudden draught put out his candle. The 
corridor had a sombre, mysterious look. 

“ Como in,” said I. 

“ Is Mr. Churm here ? ” he asked, in an anx- 
ious tone. 

“ No ; he left me at eleven, to go to his in- 
ralid, down town.” 

“ I hoped to catch him. I wanted his advice 
rery much.” 

He looked at me earnestly, as he spoke, as if 
studying my face for a solution of some difficulty. 

“ Come in out of the dark and cold ! ” said I. 

He entered. The bristly man had a worried, 
doubtful look, quite different from his alert, war- 
like expression of the morning. He was porcu- 
pine still, but porcupine badly badgered. He 
glanced nervously about the roam, with the air 
of one excited and slightly apprehensive. The 
suit of armor with the spiked mace, standing 
sentry at the lumber-room door, gave him a start. 

“ Empty iron ! ” said I ; and he can’t strike 
with that billy he holds.” 

“ I ’ve seen the old machine a hundred times,” 
Locksley rejoined. “ It only jumped me because 
I ’m all on end with worry.” 

‘‘ Can I help ? My advice is at your service, 
if it ’s worth having, and you choose to trust a 
!?tranger.” 

0, I know you ’re the right sort. We Vo 


116 


CECIL DREEME. 

made \ip our minds about that, big and little^ 
down to the Janitory. But I don’t want tc 
bother you.” 

“ Never mind ! What is the trouble ? Bur- 
glars ? Or slow fire ? ” 

‘‘ Why, you see, sir,” said Locksley, “ I ’m in 
considerable of a scare about that young paintei 
up-stairs.” 

He pointed to the centre-piece of the ara- 
besqued ceiling. I looked up, almost expecting 
to see a pair of legs dangling through, according 
to my fancy of the afternoon. 

“ What ? ” said I, my interest wide awake. 
“ The one overhead ? ” 

‘‘ Yes, sir.” 

“ Mr. Cecil Dreeme ? I saw the name on a 
card above.” 

“ Mr. Cecil Dreeme, and I ’m afraid some- 
thing ’s come to him.” 

“ Is he missing ? ” 

‘‘ No ; he ’s there. But I have n’t seen him 
these two days. Dora went up with his break- 
fast this morning, and with his dinner. No one 
answered when she knocked. I ’ve just been 
up, and hammered a dozen thumps on his door. 
1 could n’t raise a sound inside.” 

Locksley’s voice sank to an anxious whispe; 
as he spoke. 

• ‘‘ What do you fear ? ” said I. 


CECIL DEEEME. 


117 


“ Sickiiess or starvation, — one of them I ’m 
afraid has come to him. Or perhaps he ’s 
punjing away for want of open air and sun- 
shine, and some friend to say ‘ Hurrah boys ! ’ to 
him.” 

You have a pass-key, of course ; why did n’t 
you push in ? ” 

I would liave shoved straight through, and 
seen what was the matter, if Mr. Dreeme had 
been like other young follows. But he is n’t. 
He niiglit be there dying alone, and I should n’t 
like to interfere on my own hook, against his 
particular orders not to be disturbed. What do 
you say, Mr. Byng ? Suppose it ’s a case of life 
and death, — shall I break in?” 

‘‘ It is a delicate matter to advise upon. A 
gentleman’s house is his castle. I must have 
my facts before I become accomplice to a bur- 
glary. What do you know of Mr. Dreeme’s 
health or habits to make you anxious ? ” 

Not over much. But more than any one 
else.” 

“ He is reserved then ? ” My curiosity about 
the name was increasing, as the slight mystery 
seemed to thicken. 

Reserved, sir ! I don’t believe a soul in the 
city knows a word of him, except us Locks- 
leys. He ’s one of the owl kind.” 

A friendless stranger,” said I, recalling my 


118 


CECIL TREEME. 


fancies of the afternoon, by his door. A man 
with the shyness and jealousy of an artist await- 
ing recognition. He does not wish to be known 
at all until he is known to fame.” 

“ That sounds like it, partly,” Locksley re- 
turned. “ But there must be other reasons for 
his keeping so uncommon dark.” 

“ What ! Poverty ? Creditors ? Crime ? ” 
Crime and Mr. Dreeme ! You ’d drop that 
notion, if you saw him. Not that ! No ; nor 
poverty exactly. He can pay his omnibus yet, 
and need n’t go on the steps, and risk a ‘ Cut 
behind.’ ” 

‘‘ What then ? ” I asked, unwilling to pry dis- 
loyally, and yet eager to hear more. 

“ I suspicion that something ’s hit him where 
he lives, and he ’s lying by till the wound 
heals. I know how a man feels when the 
world ’s mean to him. He wants to get out 
of sight, and hide in a den like old Chrysalis. 
That was the way with me when I failed, and 
Mr. Densdeth put up my creditors not to let 
me take the Stillwell. I was mighty near hiding 
in Hellgate.” 

‘‘ How did he happen to shelter in Chrysa- 
lis ? ” I asked. 

“ I shall have to tell you all the little I 
know. I ’ve lialted because we Locksleys prom- 
ised Mr. Dreeme not to be public about him. 


CECIL DREEME. 


119 


We Ve kept it close. But you ’re one of the 
kind, Mr. Byng, that a man naturally wants 
to open his self to.” 

I ’m not leaky ; depend upon that ! ” 

“ Well,” said Locksley, fairly uncorked at last, 
and overrunning with his story ; ‘‘ Mr. Drecme 
came in, after ten, one night about three montlis 
ago, and says he, ‘ I ’ve just got to town by 
tlie late train. The last time I was down, I 
saw the card out, “ Studios to Let.” Will you 
show me what there is ? ’ ‘ Well, says I.’ ‘ It ’s 
pretty well along in the night to be hiring a 
studio ! ’ ‘ Yes,’ says he, mild as you please, 
but knowing his own mind ; ‘ but I ’ve got to 
liave one. I ’m not hard to satisfy, and if I 
could move in right off, I should save the money 
tliey ’d take from me at the Chuzzlewit, or some 
other costly hotel.’ ‘ You ’re not so flush as 
you’d like to be, perhaps,’ says I. ‘No,’ says 
he, ‘ if flush means rich, I ’m not.’ ” 

“ So you got him as a tenant,” said I, trying 
to hurry the narrator. 

“ Yes ; he was such a pleasant-spoken young 
man that I took to him. Besides, not being 
flush made him one of my family, — and a big 
family it is!” 

“ We must not forget, Locksley, that wliilo 
we discuss, he may be suffering.” 

“ That ’s true. I must talk short, and talk 


120 CECIL DREEME. 

ing sliort is n’t natural to my trade. Filing 
iron trains a man to be slow, just as hammer- 
ing iron practises him to bounce his words like 
a sledge on an anvil. Well ; I took Mr. Dreeme 
up-stairs, and showed him the studio overhead. 
It has closets and bath, like this room. He 
said that would do him. He paid me a quarter 
in advance, and camped right in, with a small 
bundle he had.” 

Gritty fellow ! ” 

“ Grit as the Quincy quarry 1 or he ’d never 
have stuck there alone for three months, paint 
ing like time, and never stirring out till night.” 

“ That is enough to kill the man ! Never till 
night! Not to meals, or to buy materials? Not 
to meet a friend, to see the world ? ” 

The world and people are what he wants to 
dodge. I buy him all his materials. He took 
the last tenant’s furniture just as it stood, — and 
it ’s only about Sing-Sing allowance. He don’t 
seem to need all sorts of old rubbish to put ideas 
into him, as the other painters do. I fitted him 
out, according to list, with sheets and towels, 
and clothes too. He said he could n’t knock 
off work for no such nonsense as clothes. He 
must paint, or he should n’t have money for 
clothes or victuals.” 

“ A resolute recluse, concentred upon his art,” 
said I. “ And aliout his meals ? ” 


CECIL DEEEME. 


121 


“ Mother Locksley cooks ’em, and Dora takes 
'em up when I ’m off. But he don’t eat enouy;h 
to keep a single-action cockroach on his rounds.” 

“ Poor fellow ! I don’t wonder he has but a 
hermit’s appe.tite.” I am ashamed to say that 
interest in this determined withdrawal from the 
world made me forget for a moment that the 
exile miaht be in urgent need of relief. 

“ Mrs. Locksley,” continued the janitor, has 
never seen him. He has had the children up, 
-and drawn their likenesses, like as they can be. 
Blit women he don’t seem to want to have any- 
thing to do with.” 

“ Ah ! ” cried I. Here we have a clew ! 
Some woman lias wronged him ; so he is going 
through a despair. That is an old story. He 
edits it with unusual vigor.” 

That ’s what my wife and I think,” says 
Locksley. “ He loved some girl, she went crook- 
ed, and so things look black to him.” 

“ What ! ” thought I. Is he passing through 
Churm’s ^ dark waters ’ ? Strange if I should 
encounter at once another illustration of that 
sorrow ! ” 

After my dramatic fashion of identifying my- 
self with others, I put myself in Mr. Dreeme’s 
{dace, and shrank from so miserable a solution 
of his exile. 

Perhaps,” I propounded, “ some flirt has 
6 


122 


CECIL DREEMS. 


victimized the poor feliow, and he does not yot 
realize that we all must take our Bachelor of 
Arts at a dirt’s school, to become Master of the 
Arts to know and win a true woman.” 

Locksley smiled, then shook his head, and his 
worried look returned. 

“No,” said he ; “ that kind of a girl makes a 
man want to be among folks and forget her. 
Mr. Dreeme has had a worse hurt than that. 
But whatever wounded him, for the last two 
weeks he ’s been growing paler and punier every 
day. Some says the smell of paint is poison. I 
don’t believe there ’s any strychnine so bad as 
moping off alone, and never seeing a laugh, and 
never playing at give and take, rough and smooth, 
out in the world.” 

“You’re right,” said I; “but let us get 
through our talk, and see what is to be done.” 

“To-night,” continued Locksley, “just as 1 
was wrastling to get off my wet boots, — they 
stuck like all suction, did them boots, but 1 
couldn’t go to bed in ’em, — just then my wife 
began talking to me about Mr. Dreeme. ‘ What 
do you suppose has come to him ? ’ says she. ‘No 
answer when Dora ^vent up with his breakfast ; 
no answer wlien she knocked with his dinner. 
I mistrust he ’s sick,’ says she. While she was 
talking, a scare — the biggest kind of a scare — 
come to mo about him. ‘ Wife,’ says I, ‘ a scare 


CECIL DREExME. 


123 


has come to me about Mr. Dreeme.’ ‘ Is it a 
prickly scare, William ? ’ says she. ‘ Prickly 
outside and in,’ says I ; ‘ I feel if I ’d swallowed 
a peck of teazles, and was rolling in a bin of ’em.’ 
‘ William,’ says she, ‘ scares is sent^ and the 
prickly scares calls for hurries. Just you run 
up, and lay your fist hard against Mr. Dreeme’s 
door, and if he don’t speak, and you can’t hear 
him snore through the keyhole, go to Mr. Cluirm, 
and whatever he says do, you do ! Mr. Cly-irm 
always threads the eye tlie first shove.’ So 1 
went up, and rapped, and the more I knocked, the 
emptier and deader it sounded. Mr. Churm is 
gone. What shall we do, Mr. Byng ? The 
young man may be up there on his back with a 
knife into him, or too weak to call out, and pant- 
ing for brandy or opodildoc. My scare gets 
worse and worse.” 

I begin to share it. We will go and break 
in at once. Light your candle, while I find a 
bottle of Mr. Stillfleet’s brandy.” 


CHAPTER X. 


OVERHEAD, WITHOUT. 

Among the other treasures of Rubbish Palace, 

I h^d inherited Stillfleet’s liqueur-case. It was 
on a generous scale, — a grand old oaken chest, 
bristling with griffins’ heads and claws, armed 
with massive iron handles, and big enough to 
hold all the favorite tipples of a royal household, 
or to hide a royal pair if they licard a Revolution 
coming up the stairs. 

Stillfieet had traced the pedigree of his chest 
to within three generations of Ginevra, in her 
family. He had no doubt that this was the 
identical coffer which that sportive lady had 
made her coffin. 

“ Clip ! ” said Stillfleet, shutting down the lid 
as he told me this legend in the afternoon. 

Clip ! listen to that snap-lock ! Fancy her^ 
feelings ! Taste that gin ! ‘ Genievre ’ from 

Ginevra's box. I like to keep my nectars in a 
coffin ; it’s my edition of the old plan of drink- 
ing from a scull. Life is short. ‘ Come, my lad, 
und drink some beer 1 ’ ” 


CECIL DREEME. 


125 


To this grand sarcophagus I proceeded to seek 
a restorative for Cecil Dreeine. Locksley’s alter- 
native, “ opodildoc,” was not at hand. 

Lifting the heavy lid, instead of poor Ginevra’s 
bare bones, I found a joyous array of antique 
flasks and goblets. They, flashed at me as the 
gas-light struck them, each with the merry wink 
of a practised bacchanal. I saw the tawny com- 
plexion of the brandy shining through a tall 
bottle, old enougli to have figured at the banquet 
of the Borgia. Around this stately personage, 
and gaping for the generous juices he might 
impart, was a circle of glasses, tlie finest work 
of the best days of Venice, clear and thin as 
bubbles, and graceful as the cups of opening 
flowers. 

I took the decanter and a glass, and, thus 
armed, followed Locksley into the corridor. 

Ilis prickly scare had so teazled tlie poor fel- 
low that he was now quite like a picture of Re- 
morse or .Despair. It was entirely dark in the 
building. Our single candle carried its little 
sphere of liglit along with it. Beyond and over- 
head might have been the vaults and chambers 
of a cavern, for all we could see. 

Passing Densdeth’s padlocked door, we turned 
toward the side staircase. I looked up and down 
the well of the stairs. No oubliette ever showed 
a blacker void. It almost seemed to my excited 


126 


CECIL DREEME. 


imagination that we ought to hear the gurgle of 
a drowning prisoner, flung down into tliat dark 
ness by us, his executioners. 

“Awful black ! said Locksley, and the sliadow 
of his bristly hair on the wall stiffened with alarm 

By the dim gleam of the candle, the paint of 
the wood and stucco of the walls of Chrysalis 
changed to oak and marble. The sham antique 
vanished. It became an actual place, not mere 
theatrical scenery. Seen by daylight, the whole 
edifice was so unreal and incongruous, that I 
should not have been surprised to see a squad 
of scene-shifters at work sliding it off and rolling 
it up, and leaving Ailanthus Square nothing but 
its bald brick houses to stare at. Now, as we 
climbed up the stairs, torch-bearer ahead, cup- 
bearer behind. Chrysalis passed very well for a 
murky old castle of the era of plots, masks, poi- 
son, ‘and vendetta. 

“ Yes,” thought I, “ Locksley’s three knocks 
did announce a new act in my drama. Cecil 
Drceme is the new actor. He follows Densdeth 
and Churm, he precedes Emma Denman. Is he 
in the plot ? Is he underplot, counterplot, or 
episode ? I hope, poor lonely fellow, that he has 
not already passed off the stage, as Locksley 
dreads. That would be a dismal opening of my 
life in Chrysalis.” 

The janitor now pushed open the partition- 


CECIL DREEME. 


127 


door from the upper landing into the northern 
corridor. 

The haggard moon, in its last quarter, hung 
just above a chimney of Mannering Place oppo- 
site, like a pale flame struggling up from a fur- 
nace Its weird light slanted across the mul- 
lion of the narrow window. 

There was just enough of this feeble pallor to 
nullify the peering light of Locksley’s candle. 
Ghostly, indeed, the spot appeared ! My anxiety 
and my companion’s alarm were lively enough 
to shape a score of ghosts out of a streak of 
moonshine. 

‘‘ To Let,” the tenant of the left-hand rooms, 
had no business with us, nor we with him. On 
the other side was the modest little card : — 

Cecil Dreeme, 

Painter. 

Destiny had brought us together. I was about 
to know him, alive or dead. 

Alive or dead ! That doubt in both our minds 
made us hesitate an instant. Locksley looked up 
to mo for orders. 

“ Knock ! ” whispered I. 

He knocked gently. If tliere were a sick man 
within, his hearing, sharpened by silence, would 
abhor a noise. 

* 

•We both listened, without whisper or sigh. 


128 


CECIL DKEEME. 


Locksley deposited Ins candle on the floor ana 
put his ear to the keyhole. The low light flung 
a queer, distorted shadow of him on the wall. It 
seemed a third person, of impish aspect, not med« 
dling with our proceedings, but watching them 
scornfully. 

No answer. Not even the weak ‘‘ Come in 
of an invalid. 

Locksley “laid his fist to the door,” without 
respect to his knuckles. 

“ Nothing,” whispered he, “ except a sound of 
emptiness.” 

We now both knocked loudly, and gave the 
door a rough shake, as if it merited ungentle 
liandling for obstructing the entrance of well- 
wishers. 

After this uproar, dead silence again, except 
a low grumble of echoes, turning over in their 
sleep, to mutter anathemas at the disturbers of 
their repose. 

“ Locksley,” I whispered, “we are wasting time. 
Try your pass-key.” i 

He introduced the key. • His shadow, exagger- 
ated and sinister, bent over him as he worked. 

“ I must pick it,” said he, turning to me with 
a dogged burglar-look on his honest face. “His 
key is in the lock inside. But I have n’t been 
poking into keyholes ever since I was knee-high 
to a katydid for nothing.” 


CECIL DREEMK 


129 


He took from liis pocket a pair of delicate pin- 
cers. He manipulated for a moment. Presently 
[ lieard the key rattle and then drop inside. 

That unlawful noise should awake any sleeper ! 
We paused and listened. No sound. Awe flowed 
m and filled the silent stillness. Again we looked 
a: each other, shrinking from an interchange of 
apprehension. 

‘‘I’m afraid he is — not living,” Locksley 
breathed at last. 

“ Don’t stop ! Open ! ” 

lie put in liis pass-key and turned. The bolt 
of the latch also yielded to this slight pressure. 
The door opened a crack without warning. Our 
candle, standing on the floor, bent its flame over, 
peering through into the darkness within. Be 
fore I could snatch it up, the inquisitive little 
bud of fire had been dragged from its stem by 
the draught. The candle was out. 

By the pallid moonlight we could just see each 
other’s anxious faces. We could also see, through 
the narrow crack of the door, that the same faint, 
unsubstantial glimmer filled the room. This 
ghostly light repelled me more than the dark- 
ness. It could show the form, but not the ex- 
pression of objects ; and form without expression 
is death. 

“ I have matches,” whispered Locksley. 

He drew one across the sole of his shoe. It 
6 * 


1 


130 


CECIL DREEME. 


flashed phosphoric, illuminated the breadth of 
sturdy cowhide upon which the janitor trod, and 
went out. 

“ Take time with the next,” said I. “ I must 
e;o in at once/’ 


CHAPTER XI. 


OVERHEAD, WITHIN. 

The same door which we had battered and 
shaken so rudely I now pushed open with quiet, 
almost reverent hand. 

Was I entering into the presence of Death ? 
No sleep but that, it seemed to me, could hug a 
sleeper so close as to silence his answer or his 
protest at our noise. 

So I stole into the tacit chamber, eagerly, and 
yet with my nerves in that timorous tremor when 
they catch influences, as lifting ripples catch sun- 
rise before the calms. 

I pushed back the door against the close, repel- 
lent atmosphere within. Holding it, still, as it 
were a shield against some sorrowful shock I was 
to encounter, 1 paused a breath to see my way. 

The force of the faint moonliglit brought it 
only as far as the middle of the room. There 
there was a neutral ground, not light, not dark, 
a vague in which forms could be discerned by 
intent vision. 

I involuntarily closed my eyes, to give sight tho 


CECIL DREEME. 

recoil before the leap. Wlien I opened them, and 
flung my look forward to grapple with what it 
could find, the first object it seized was a small 
splash of white light, half drowned in the dim- 
ness. The moonbeams were also, without much 
vigor, diving to examine this sunken object. 
Tlieir entrance, or perhaps my own trembling 
eagerness, seemed to make a little fluctuation 
about it. I steadied and accustomed my glance, 
and presently deciphered the spot as a mass of 
white drapery in a picture, standing upon an 
easel. 

While I was making this out, I heard behind 
me the crack and fizz of Locksley’s second failure 
with his matches. 

The little sound was both ally and stimulant. 
I advanced another step, and my groping sight 
detected a large arm-chair posted before tlie easel. 

Hanging over the arm of the chair, where the 
moonlight could not reach, I saw another faint, 
pale spot. It was where a hand would rest. 
Was it a hand ? 

Beckoned forward by this doubt, I moved on 
and saw, flung back in the arm-chair, a shadowy 
figure. A man ? Yes ; dim form and deathly 
face, — a man ! 

The air of the room was close and sicklj-. 1 
choked for breath. Life needs a double portion 
at such moments. 


CECIL DREEME. 


133 


Dead ? Is he dead ? I seemed to screa. n the 
unspoken question to my heart. 

It cost me an effort to master the involuntary 
human shudder at such an encounter. I sprang 
forward where the pale hand without motion 
beckoned, and the pale face pleaded for succor. 

Nothing of the repellent magnetism of a corpse 
as my liand approached the forehead. 

But as little the responsive thrill of life ^^aken- 
ing at life’s touch, and renewing with a start the 
old delicious agony of conscious being. 

I laid my hand upon the brow. 

Cold ! But surely not the cold of death ! his 
was no dead man wliom I anxiously, and the 
moon impassively, were studying. Tranced, not 
dead, so instinct told me. Life miglit be latent, 
but it was there. 

1 felt tears of relief start into my eyes. 

Whoever has lived knows that timely death is 
the great prize of life ; who can regret wlien a 
wortliy soul wins it ? But this untimely perisln 
ing of a brother-man, alone and helpless in the 
dark and cold, was pure waste and ruiii. 

Locksley now came to my side, sheltering his 
liglited candle. 

“ Dead ? ” gasped he, and stopped silent before 
tlie arm-chair. 

“ No, no,” I whispered, and the curdling whis- 
per showed me how deep my hoi*ror had been. 


134 


CECIL DKEEME. 


‘‘ No ; only fainted, I trust. Open the sTindow ! 
Fresh air is tlie first want.” 

“ Fresh air he shall have, if there ’s any blow* 
ing,” says Locksley, briskly. “ Fresli air beats 
the world for stiddy vittles.” 

While he worked at the window, I poured a 
compacter restorative than air out of Stillfleet’s 
flask. I gently forced a few drops of the brandy 
down the unconscious man’s throat, and expended 
a few sprinkles to bathe his forehead. 

‘‘ It is the painter, Locksley ? ” I asked. 

“ Yes sir.” 

And so began my acquaintance with Cecil 
Dreemo. 


CHAPTER XII. 


DREEME, ASLEEP. 

A CURRENT of wintry wind flowed in as Locks- 
ley lifted the sash. 

“ Fresh air is prime for the inside/’ said he. 

But warm air for the outside is the next best 
thing. Shall I light a fire in the stove ? ” 

‘‘ Do ; but first hand me that plaid.” 

I wrapped my unresisting patient in the shawl. 
He was a mere dead weight in my hands. I 
shuddered to think that his life might be drifting 
away, just out of my reach. 

“ I hope we are not too late,” I said. 

“ Shall I fetch a doctor ? ” asked Locksley. 

“ Fire first. Then doctor — if he does not re- 
vive.” 

‘‘ There ’s no kindling-wood,” says Locksley, 
from the closet. “ I ’ll run down to your place, 
Mr. Byng, and get some.” 

“ Pray do ! ” 

He hurried off. I was left alone with the 
tranced man. I repeated tlic little dose of bran- 
dy, and stood aside to let the light of the candle 
fall ujjon his face. 


136 


CECIL DREEME. 


Stop ! ” said Delicacy. “ Respect the young 
man’s resolute incognito.” 

‘‘ Too late ! ” I thought in reply. Incognito 
has nearly murdered him. I shall knock it in 
the head without ceremony. Besides, Fate lias 
appointed me his physician ; how can I doctor 
* him intelligently without feeling the pulse of his 
soul by studying his face ? ” 

The first question I asked the pale, voiceless 
countenance was, whether I was not committing 
the impertinence of trying to force a man to live 
who had wished to Idll’ himself. Suicide ? No ; 
I don’t sec any blood. I smell no laudanum. 
Here has been unhappiness, but no despair, no 
self-disgust. A pure life and a clear intellect, — 
so the face publishes. Such a youth might wear 
out with work or a wound ; he would never 
abdicate his birthright to live and learn, to suffer 
and be strong. Clearly no suicide. 

“ No,” my thought continued rapidly, “ Locks- 
ley lias supplied the theory of Mr. Dreeme’s case. 
His face illustrates and confirms it. A man of 
genius, ardent, poor, and nursing a wound. The 
wound may be merely a scratch, he may merely 
have had the poet’s quarrel with vulgar life ; but, 
great or small, the hurt has consigned him to 
this unwholesome solitude, and liere he has lav- 
ished liis mind and body on his art. No, Cecil 
Dreeme, you are dying because yon have igno- 


/ 


CECIL DREEME. 137 

rantly lived too intensely. But the world does not 
willingly let such faces die. I myself led the 
need of you. Even with your eyes closed, the 
liglit gone, your countenance tolls me of the ])res- 
ence of a character and an experience riper and 
deeper than my own. What have you been 
taught by suffering, what have you divined by 
genius, tliat you wear maturity so patiently upon 
your sad young face ? ” 

I took tlic candle and held it to his lips. Did 
he breathe ? The flame flickered. But the air 
flowing in from without midit have caused that ; 
and I would not close the window until the keen 
northern blast had scourged out every breath of 
languor from the stifling room. 

I withdrew the candle. Curiosity urged me 
to study the face more in detail. But that 
seemed disloyal to the sleeper. I had made up 
my mind that my patient was worthy of all my 
care. lie was not dead, that I should dissect 
him. While a face caii protect itself by the eye, 
— which is sliield to ward, blade to parry, and 
point to assail, — one feels not much scru])le in 
staring. But what right had I to profit by tliis 
chance lifting of the visor of a disarmed man, . 
who wished to do his battle of life unknown ? 

I tlicrefore stopped intentionally short of a 
thorough analysis of his countenance. Fair play 
and my anxiety both made me content with my 


138 


CECIL DREEME. 


general impressions. It is error to waste the first 
look and the first few moments, if one wishes to 
comprehend a face, — to see into it. No after 
observations arc so sharp and so unprejudiced. 

Roughly then, — Cecil Dreeme’s face was re- 
fined and sensitive, the face of a borti artist. 
Separately, the features were all good, well cut 
and strong. Their union did not produce beauty: 
It was a face not harmonized by its construction, 
but by expression, — by the impression it gave of 
a vigorous mind, controlling varied and perhaps 
discordant elements of character into unison. 
There was force, energy, passion, and no lack of 
sweetness. Short, thick, black hair grew rather 
low over a square forehead. The eyebrows were 
heavy and square. The hollow cheeks were all 
burnt away by the poor fellow’s hermit life. He 
wore no beard, so that he was as far from tlie 
frowzy Diisseldorfer of my fancy as from the 
pretty, poetic young Raphael. This was a man 
of another order, not easy to classify. His coun- 
tenance seemed to interpret his strange circum- 
stances. The face and the facts were consistent, 
and both faithful to their mystery. 

All this while I was chafing his liands, and 
watching intently for some tremor of revival. 

Presently the silgnee and the lifeless touch 
grew, so appalling, that I was moved to caU 
aloud : “ Dreemo ! Cecil Dreeme I ” 


CECIL DREEME 


139 


I half fancied that he stirred at this. 

Yes 1 No ! 

Trance was master still. Life must he patient. 
If it wrestled too soon, it might get a fatal fall. 
I dreaded the thought of my invalid giving one 
gasp, shuddering with one final spasm, and then 
drooping into my arms — dead. 

Locksley now came clattering into the lobby, 
dropping billets from an over-load of kindling- 
wood. 

He shot down his armful by the stove, and ap- 
proached the figure in the arm-chair. 

‘‘Any pulse?” said he, taking the cold hand 
in his. 

“ Is there any ? ” I asked, eagerly. 

“ I should n’t wonder,” he replied, “ if the 
blood was starting, just a little, like water under 
ice in the early' spring.” Locksley repeated the 
experiment with the candle. 

“ He breathes,” he whispered. 

There was for a moment no draught, and 
the flame certainly trembled before Dreeme’s 
lips. 

“ He can’t be said to be coming to,” agam 
whispered the janitor. “ That ’s too far ahead. 
Lilt he ’s out of the woods, and struck the cart- 
track leadin’ to tlie turnpike.” 

“ Thank God ! ” 

“ Ay ! that always ! ” said Locksley, gravely. 


140 


CECIL DREEMI^ 


“ Now here goes at tlie fire ! You ’ll hear a 
rumblin’ in this stove before many minutes 
that would boost a cliiihney-sweep.” 

He heaped in his kindling-stuff, and lighted 
it. The pleasant noise of fire began. Locks le.} 
left the stove, intoning hollow music, like an 
automaton bassoon, and turned to me : “ Looks 

pretty gritty, — Mr. Dreeme, — don’t he ? And 
pretty mild too ? ” 

“ Both,” said I. 

Not many would have stood it out alone 
in such a bare barn as this.” 

For the first time I gave myself an instant to 
glance about the studio. 

A bare barn indeed ! Half-carpeted, furnished 
with a table, a chest of drawers, and two or three 
chairs. The three doors, corresponding to my 
bath-room, bedroom, and lumber-room, were the 
only objects to break the monotony of the un- 
adorned walls. After the lavish confusion of 
Rubbish Palace, this place looked doubly bleak 
and forlorn. To paint here, without one single 
attractive bit of color or form to relieve tlie eye 
and subsidize the fancy, was a tom de force ^ like 
a blind man’s writing a Paradise Lost, or a deaf 
man’s composing a symphony. 

“He’s had to wind his wliole picture out of 
his liead,” said liocksley, following my glance, 
“and it ain’t so bad either, if you could see it 


CECIL DREE^IE. 


141 


fair by daylight. Look at it there !. It ’s one 
of those pictures that make a man feel savage 
and sorry all at once.” - 

Lear and his Daughters, — that was the pic- 
ture on Dreeme’s easel. I glanced at it, as I 
continued my , offices about him. 

The faint light of one candle gave it a certain 
mysterious reality. The background retired, the 
figures projected. They stirred almost, almost 
spoke. It seemed that I ought to know tliem, 
but that, if I did not catch the likeness at tlie 
first look, I could never see it. “ That large and 
imposing figure, the King ! — wipe out the hate 
from his face, and I have surely seen the face. 
T1 le Regan is in shadow ; but the Goneril, — 
what features do I half remember that scorn 
might so despoil of beauty ? Ah ! that is the 
power of a great .artist. Ilis creations become 
facts. This is not imagination, it is history. At 
last here is my vague conception of Lear real- 
ized.” 

’ The Cordelia I recognized at once. ‘‘ Cecil 
Dreeme himself. He needed, it seems, but little 
womanizing. A very noble figure, even as I 
bre it faintly. Tenderness, pity, undying love 
fur the liarsh father, for the false sisters, all these 
Oi ceme’s Cordelia — Dreeme’s self idealized - 
expresses fully.” 

These observations, made in the dim. light, 


142 


CECIL DREEME. 


were interrupted by a little stir and gasp of oui 
patient. 

We watched anxiously and in silence. Fresh 
air, warm wrappings, brandy, and the magnetism 
of human touch and human presence, were pre- 
vailing. Yes ; there could be no doubt ; Ik 
breathed faintly. 

The fire in the stove was now roaring loud. 
That lusty sound and the dismal wind without 
could not overpower the low, feeble gasps of the 
unconscious man. 

‘‘We ’ve got him, hooray ! ” said Locksley, in 
an excited whisper. 

We shook hands, like victors after a charge. 
I could have seized the bristly janitor, and whirled 
him into a Pyrrhic breakdown, without respect to 
my ceiling below. 

“ Air he ’s got,” says Locksley, “ and fire he ’s 
got, and a friend he ’s got ; now for some food 
for him ! If you say so, I T1 just jiff round to 
Bagpypes, first block in Broadway, and get some 
oysters. He has n’t touched a mouthful to-day, 
unless he can eat anthracite out of the coal-bin. 
Starvation’s half the trouble. An oyster is all 
the world in one bite. Let’s get some oysters 
into him, and we’ll build him up higher than a 
shot-tower in an hour’s time ! ” 

“ Just the thing I ” said I. “But here, taVij 
some luoney ! ” 


CECIL drekmp:. 


14B 

“ You may go your halves,” says the honest 
fellow. ‘‘But, Mr. Byng,” — he hesitated, and 
looked at me doubtfully, — “ suppose he wakes 
up while I ’m gone, and finds a stranger here ? ” 

“ I ’ll justify you. I will show him that I ’m a 
friend before he ’s made me out a stran 2 :er.” 

“•That’s right, sir. I think you’ve got a call 
here, a loud call. See how things has worked 
round. You come home, with nobody to look after, 
you come into Chrysalis, and the very first night 
a scare is sent to me. I go after Mr. Churm, as 
is ordered by my wife and the prickles of the 
scare. I don’t find him ; I do find you. You 
don’t say, ‘ Janitor, this is none of my business. 
Apply at the sign of the Good Samaritan, across 
tlie way ! ’ No ; you know it ’s a call. You take 
hold ; and here we are, and the boy a coming to 
on the slow train. When he gets to the depot. 
Air. Byng, I hope you ’ll stand by him and stick 
to him.” 

“ I will be a brother to him, Locksley, if he 
will let me.” 

“ Let or no let. Air. Byng. You ’ve got a call 
to pad to him like a soldier-coat to a Governor’s 
Guard. But here I go talkin’ off, and where ’s 
the oysters ? ” 

He hurried away. I was left alone with Cecil 
nrccme. 

Locks! cy’s urgent plea was hardly needed. .1 


144 


CECIL DKEEME. 


felt every moment more brotherly to this desolate 
being, consigned to me by Fate. 

‘‘ Poor fellow ! ” I thought. “ He, I am sure, 
will not requite me with harm for saving him, as 
old proverbs too truly say the baser spirits may.” 

I wheeled him close to the stove. The room 
still seemed a dark and cheerless place to come 
back to life in. I tried to light the gas. It was 
chilled. There was a little ineffectual sputter as 
I touched the tube ; a few sparks sprang up, but 
no flame backed them. 

“ It must be compelled to look a shade more 
cheerful, this hermitage ! ” I thought. So I ran 
down in the dark to my own quarters for more 
light. 

Rubbish Palace was generous as Fortunatus’s 
purse. Whatever one wanted came to hand, 
lilore light was my present demand. I found it 
in a rich old bronze candelabrum, bristling witli 
candles^ More wrappings, too, I thought my 
patient might require. I flung across my arm a 
blanket from my bed, and that gorgeous yellow 
satin coverlet, once Louis Philippe’s. 

Perhaps, also, Dreeme might fancy some other 
drink than brandy when the oysters came. There 
was Ginevra’s coffer, again presenting a plen- 
teous choice. I snatched up another old flask, 
beaming with something vinous and purple, pock- 
eted another Venetian goblet, and, thus rein- 
forced, hastened up-slairs. 


CECIL DREEME. 


145 


Now that the deadly distress of my alarm for 
the painter was reduced to a healthy anxiety, I 
could think what a picture I presented marching 
along, with my antique branch of six lighted 
candles in one hand, the mass of shining drapery 
on my arm, and in the other hand the glass, 
flasliing with the red glimmers of its wine. But 
this walking tableau met no critics on the stairs ; 
and wlien I pushed open Dreeme’s door, he did 
not turn, as I half hoped he might, and survey 
the niglit-scene with a painter’s eye. 

I deposited my illumination on the table. 
Tlien I began to envelop my tranced man in 
that soft satin covering, whose color alone ought 
to warm him. 

All at once, as, kneeling, I was arranging this 
robe of state about Dreeme’s feet, I became con 
scions, by I know not what magnetism, that lie 
liad opened his eyes, and was earnestly looking 
at me. 

I would not glance up immediately. Better 
that he should recognize me as a friend, at a 
friend’s work, before I as a person challenged 
him, eye to eye. 

I kept my head bent down, and let him ex- 
amine me, as I felt that he was doing, with 
liollow, melancholy eyes. 




7 


CHAPTER XIII. 


DREEME, AWAKE. 


I FELT that the pale face of Cecil Dr(;emG 
was regarding me with its hollow, sad eyes, 
as I arrayed him in the splendid spoil of the 
Tuileries. 

Saying to himself, perhaps, I thought, “ What 
docs tins impertinent intruder want ? Am I to 
he compelled to live against my will ? I excluded 
air, rejected food and fire, — must self-appointed 
friends thrust themselves upon me, and jar my 
calm accord with Death ? ” 

I might be in a false position after all. ^ly 
services and my apparatus might be merely offi- 
cious. 

I evaded Dreeme’s look, and, moving to the 
table behind him, I occupied myself in pouring 
out a sip from tlie flask I had just brought. The 
purple wine sparkled in the goblet. In such a 
glass Eassanio might have pledged Portia. 

No sooner had I stepped aside, than Dreeme 
stirred, and tlicre came to me a voice, like the 
echo of a whispcj* : ‘‘Do not go.” 


CECIL DREEME. 


147 


‘‘ No,” said I, “ I am liere.” 

Thus invited, I came forward and looked at 
him, eye to eye. 

'Wonderful eyes of his ! None ever shone truer, 
braver, steadier. These large dark orbs, now 
studying me with such sad earnestness, com- 
pleted, without dehning, my first impressions of 
the man. Here was finer vision for beauty than 
the vision of creatures of common clay. Here 
was keener insight into truth ; here were tlie 
deeper faith, the larger love, that make Genius. 
A priceless spirit ! so I fully discerned, now that 
the face had supplied its own illumination. A 
priceless spirit ! and so nearly lost to the world, 
which has persons enough, but no spirits to 
waste. 

As we regarded each other earnestly, 1 per- 
ceived the question flit across my mind ; Had I 
not had a glimpse of that inspired face before ? ” 

‘‘ Why not ? ” my thought replied. “ I may 
have seen him copying in the Louvre, sketching 
in the Oberland, dejected in the Coliseum, elated 
in St. Peter’s, taking his coffee and violets in the 
Caf^ Dond, whisking by at the Pitti Palace ball. 
Artists start up everywhere in Europe, like but- 
terflies among flowers. He may have flashed 
across my siglit, and imprinted an image on my 
brain to which his presence applies the st^»\^ 
scopic counterpart. 


148 


CECIL DREEME. 


This image, if it existed, was too faint to 
hold its own with the reality. It vanished, or 
only remained a slight blur in my mind. 1 
satisfied myself that I was comparing Dreeme 
with his idealized self in the picture. 

Yoii are better,” said I. 

There came a feeble, flutter-like “ Yes,” in 
reply. 

He still continued looking at me in a vague, 
bewildered way, his great, sad eyes staring from 
his pale face, as if he had not strength to close 
them. 

“ I have been giving you brandy,” I said ; 
“ let me offer a gentler medicine.” 

I held out the cup. Then, as he made no sign 
of assent, I felt that he might have a reason- 
able hesitation in taking an unknown drauglit 
from a stranger hand. I sipped a little of the 
wine. It was fragrant Port with plenty of 
body and a large proportion of soul. Magnifi- 
cent Mafra at its royalist banquet never poured 
out richer juices to enlarge a Portuguese king 
into manhood. It had two flavors. One would 
say that the grapes whicli once held it bottled 
within tlie dewy transparency of tlicir rind liad 
hung along the terraces beside the sea, drink 
ing two kinds of sunshine all the long after- 
noons of ripe midsummer. Every grape had 
felt the round sun gazing straight and steadily 


CECIL DIIEEME. 


149 


at it, and enjoying his countenance within, as 
a lover loves to see his own image rt^flected in 
his lady’s eye. And every grape besides had 
taken in the broad glow of sunshine shining 
back from the glassy bay its vineyard over* ' 
hung, or the shattered lights of innumerable 
ripples, stirred when the western winds came 
shnging themselves along the level sunbeams 
of evening. 0 Harry Stillfieet ! why did n’t 
you have a pipe, instead of a quart, of tlie stuff? 
Why not an ocean, instead of a sample ? 

I sipped a little, like a king’s wine-taster. 

Port, not poison, Mr. Dreeme,” said I. “ This 
Venice glass would shiver with poison, and crack 
with scorn at any dishonest beverage.” 

He seemed to make a feeble attempt at a 
smile, as I proffered the dose. ‘‘ Your health ! ” 
his lips rather framed than uttered. 

I put the glass to his mouth. 

An unexpected picture for mid-nineteenth cen- 
tury, and a corner of rusty Chrysalis ! a strange 
})icture ! — -this dark-haired, wasted youth, robed 
like a sick prince, and taking his posset from a 
goblet fashioned, perhaps, in a shop that paid 
rent to Shylock. 

Dreeme closed his eyes, and seemed to let 
tlie wholesome fever of his draught revivify 
him. By this time the room was warm and 
comfortable. The stove might bo ugly as a 


150 


CECIL DREEME, 


cylindrical fetish of the blackest Africa ; but \i 
radiated heat with Phoebus-like benignity. 

‘‘ How cheerful ! ’’ murmured the painter, 
looking up again, his forlorn expression de- 
parted. ‘‘ Fire ! Light ! I am a new being ! ” 

“ Not a spirit, then ! ” said I. There was still 
something remote and ghost-like in the bewil- 
dered look of his hollow eyes. 

‘‘ No spirit ! This is real flesh and blood.’’ 

I smiled. “ Not much of either.” 

“ Have I to thank you that I am not indeed 
a spirit ? ” asked he slowly, but seeming to gain 
strength as he spoke. 

“ Locksley, the janitor, first, and me, second, 
you may thank, if life is a boon to you.” 

“ I thank both devoutly. Life is precious, 
while its work remains undone.” 

Here he closed his eyes, as if facing labor and 
duty again was too much for his feebleness. 
When he glanced up at me anew, I fancied I 
saw an evanescent look of recognition drift 
across his face. 

This set me a second time turning over the 
filmy leaves of the book of portraits in my brain. 
Was his semblance among those legions of faces 
packed close and set away in order there ? No. 
I could not identify liim. The likeness drifted 
away from me, and vanished, like a perplexing 
strain of music, once just trembling at the lips. 


CECIL DREEIklE. 


151 


but now gone with the breath, refusing to be 
sung. 

1 thought it not best to worry him with in- 
quiries ; so I waited quietly, and in a moment ho 
began. 

‘‘ Will you tell me what has happened ? How 
came I under your kind care ? Yours is a new 
face in Chrysalis.” 

“ I must give the face a name,” said I. “ Let 
me present myself. Mr. Robert Byng.” 

“Ill return, know 'me as Mr. Cecil Dreeme. 
Will you shake hands with your grateful patient, 
Mr. Byng.” 

He weakly lifted an attenuated hand. Poor 
fellow ! I could hardly keep my vigorous fist 
from crushing up that meagre, chilly handful, so 
elated was I at his recovery and his gratitude. 

“ I owe you an explanation, of course,” said L- 

I am a ncw-comer, arrived from Europe only 
last night. Mr. Stillfleet, an old comrade, ceded 
his chambers below to me this afternoon. Locks 
ley came to my door at twelve o’clock, looking 
for my friend Mr. Cl\urm, who had been sitting 
with me. Churm had gone. Locksley w^as in 
great alarm. I volunteered my advice. Ho took 
mo into his confidence, so far as this : he said 
that you were a young painter, living in the clos- 
est retirement, for reasons satisfactory to yoiir- 
sell', and that he feared you were dying from 


152 


CECIL DREEME. 


ov^erwork, confinement, solitude, and perhaps 
mental trouble. I said you must be helped at 
once. We came up, and banged at your dooi 
lieartily. No answer. We took the liberty to 
pick your lock and break into your castle. Then 
we took the greater liberty to put life into you, 
in the form of air, warmth, and alcohol.” 

Pardonable liberties, surely.” 

“ Yes ; since it seems you did not mean to 
die.” 

“ Suicide ! ” said Dreeme, reproachfully. “ No, 
thank God ! You did not accuse me of that, Mr. 
Ryng ! ” 

“ When we were knocking at your door, and 
hearing only a deathly silence, I dreaded that 
you had let toil and trouble drive you to despair.” 

‘‘ Overwork and anxiety were killing me, with- 
.out my knowledge.” 

“ And solitude ? ” said I. 

“ And that solitude of the heart which is the 
brother of death. Yes, Mr. Byng, I have been 
extravagant of my life. But innocently. Be- 
lieve it 1 ” 

There was such eager protest in his look and 
tone, that I hastened to reassure him. 

When I saw your face, Jilr. Dreeme, I read 
there too much mental life and too mucli moral 
Life for suicide. 1 see brave patience in your 
countenance. Besides, you have too much sense 


CECIL DREEME. 


153 


to rush out and tap Death on the cold shoulder, 
and beg to be let out of life into Paradise before 
you have earned your entrance fee. You know, 
as well as I do, that Death keeps suicides shiver 
ing in Chaos, without even a stick and a knife to 
notch off the measureless days, until the allotted 
dying hour they vainly tried to anticipate comes 
round.” 

Drecmc’s attention refused to be averted from 
his own case by such speculations. 

1 have been struggling with dark waters, — 
dark waters, Mr. Byng,” said he. 

“ ChurnPs very plirase to describe his sorrow,” 
1 tliought. ‘‘ Who knows but Dreeme’s grief is 
tlie same ? ” 

Struggling like a raw swimmer,” he contin 
ued. And when , I was drowning, I find you 
sent to give me a friendly hand. It is written 
that 1 shall not die with all my work undone. 
No, no. I shall live to finish.” 

He spoke with strange energy, and turned 
toward his easel as he closed. 

“You refer to your picture,” said I, pleased 
to see his artist enthusiasm kindle so soon. 

“ My picture ! ” he rejoined, a little carelessly, 
as if it were of graver work he had thought. 
“ How does it promise ? I have put my whole 
heart into it. ButHiand cannot always speak 
loud enough or clear enough to interpret heart.’ 


154 


CECIL DREEIME. 


“ Hand lias not stammered or miimlled here,” 

I replied. My first glance showed me that. 
But I must have daylight to study it as it de- 
serves. Am I right in recognizing you as the 
Cordelia of the piece ? ” 

‘‘ For lack of a better model, I remodelled my- 
self, and intruded there in womanly guise. My 
work is unfinished, as you see ; but if you had 
not interposed to-night, I should have painted 
no more.” He shuddered, and seemed to grow 
faint again at the thought of that desolate death 
lie had Jiardly escaped. 

“ Let me cheer you with a fresh dose of vital- 
ity,” said I. ‘‘ A little more Lusitanian sun in 
crystal of Yenice.” 

This time he was strong enough himself to 
raise the cup to his lips. He sipped, and smiled 
gratefully ; — and really a patient owes some 
thanks to a doctor who restores him with nectar 
smooth and fragrant, instead of rasping his throat 
and flaying his whole interior with the bitters 
sucked by sour-tempered roots from vixenish 
soils. 

“ It was a happy fate, a kind Providence,” 
said Hreemc, “ that sent to me in my extremity 
a gentleman whose touch to mind and body is * 
fine and gentle as a woman’s.” 

“Thank you,” rejoined I. “But remember 
that I am only acting as Mr. Churm’s substitute. 


15o 


CECIL DREKMK. 

I hope you will let me bring him to you in the 
morning.” 

‘‘ No,” said he, almost with rude emphasis. 

1 looked at him in some surprise. ‘‘ You seem 
to liave a prejudice against the name,” I re- 
marked. 

‘‘ Why should I ? I merely do not wish to add 
to my list of friends.” 

‘‘ But Mr. Churm is the very ideal friend, — 
stanch as oak, true as steel, warm and cheery ati 
sunshine, eager as fresh air, tender as midsum- 
mer rain. Do let me interest him in you. lie 
is just tlie man to befriend a lonely fellow.” 

Dreeme shook his head, resolutely and sadly. 

“You seem to mistrust my enthusiasm,” I said 

“ It is tragic to me,” lie returned, “ to hear a 
generous nature talk so ardently of its friendships 
Have you had no disappointments ? lias no one 
you loved changed and become abased ? ” 

“ One would almost say you wore trying to 
shake my faith in my friend.” 

“ Why should I ? I speak generally.” 

Here the partition door of the lobby without 
opened, and we heard footsteps. 

“ Friend Locksley, with some supper for you,” 
said I, half annoyed at the interruption of our 
tete-d-tHe. 

“How kind I how thoughtful of you both!” 
and teai's started in Dreeme’s eyes as ho spoke. 


CR VPTER XIV. 


A MILD OKGIE. 

Locksley came boldly in, breathlessly. 

• ‘‘ All right, I see, Mr. Dreeme,” he panted. 

“ All right, Locksley ! thanks to you and Mr. 
Byng.” 

‘‘ I ’ve been gone,’’ says the janitor, ‘‘ long 
enough to make all tlie shifts of a permutation 
lock.” 

He deposited a huge basket on the table. 

“ Bagpypes’s was shut,” he continued. So 
was De Grope’s. I had to go up to Selleridge’s. 
He ’s an open-all-night-er. Selleridge’s was full 
of fire-company boys, taking their tods after a 
run. Selleridge could n’t stop pouring and mix- 
ing and stirring and muddling. ‘Firemen comes 
first,’ says he. ‘ They ’ve got to have their extin 
guisliers into ’em.’ So I jumped up on the 
counter, and says I, ‘Boys, I’ve got a sick man 
to oyster up, and if he ain’t oystered up on time 
he’ll bo a dead shell.’ So tlio red flannels 
d rawed off, like real bricks. I got my oyslers. 
and came away like horse-power. 


CECIL DREEME. 


157 


Lockslcy took breath, and began to arrange hi? 
vivers on the table. 

Six Shrewsbnrys,” he pronounced, bestowing 
their portly shells before him. “ For a roast, if 
Mr. Dreeme likes. Twelve Bluc-Fointers, every 
one little as a lady’s ear. Them for a stew, if 
Mr. Dreeme likes better. Paper of mixed crack- 
ers, — Boston blitters, Wilson’s sweets, and 
Wing’s pethy. Pad of butter. Plate of slaw, 
ready vinegared. I wanted to leave the slaw-; 
but Selleridge said, ‘ No ; slaw and oysters was 
man and wife, and he shouldn’t be easy in his 
mind if he sent one out and kep’ the other.’ 
And here ’s some Scotch ale, in a scrumptious 
little stone jug, to wash all down.” 

‘‘ You will appall Mr. Dreeme’s invalid appe- 
tite witli these piles of provender,” said 1. 

“ On tlie contrary, my s])irits rise with the 
sight of a banquet and guests to share it,” 
Dreeme returned. 

‘‘ Nibble on a Wing’s pethy,” says Locksley, 
handing tlie crackers, ‘‘ while I plant a Shrews- 
bury to cook in the stove.” 

“ I did not know how ravenous I was,” Dreeme 
said, taking a second “ pethy.” 

“Dora had a hearty cry,” says the janitor, 
“ because she could n’t get any word wlien she 
came up with your meals to-day, ]\rr. Dreeme.” 

“ Poor child ! 1 heard her knock in the morn- 


158 


CECIL DREEME. 


ing ; but I was half asleep, and too weak to an- 
swer. All at once my strength, ignorantl}^ ov’er 
tasked, had failed. Later, I managed to struggle 
up and dress myself. Then I found my way to 
this arm-chair before my picture. There I sat all 
day, sometimes unconscious, sometimes conscious 
of a flicker of life. Dora came with my dinner. 
I heard hsr ki:oek. When I perceived that I 
could not spsak cr stir in answer, utter desola- 
tion darkened down upon me. I felt myself sink 
away, and seemed to drown, slowly, slowly, with- 
out pain or terror. Immeasurable deeps of 
space crushed me. But by and by I felt my 
course reversed. I was rising, slowly as I had 
sunk. At last 1 knew the i)ang and thrill of life, 
i woke and saw Mr. Byng restoring me.” 

Dreeme recited this history with strange im- 
passiveness. 

“ You take it pretty cool,” says Lockslcy. 
“ It seems as if you was making up a tale about 
somebody else, — holding off your death at arm's 
length and talking about it.” 

“ Mr. Dreeme speaks as an artist,” said I, try- 
ing, with a blundering good-humor, to make our 
parley less sombre. “ He already looks at this 
passage in his life as a peril quite escaped, and 
so material for dramatic treatment.” 

“ Death and resurrection ! ” said Dreeme, 
gravely “ Suppose, Mr. Byng, that you were 


CECIL DKEEME. 


159 


\?orn down to die by agony for sins not your 
own, could yon believe that such an incomplete 
death as mine makes atonement ? Could you 
liope that your strong suffering had purged the 
guilty souls clean ? Could you have faith that 
tlieir lives would renew and amend, as vital force 
came back to the life that had sorrowed unto 
death for them ? ” 

“ Solemn questions, Mr. Dreeme,” I replied. 
“ Are you quite well enough yet to entertain 
them ? ” 

Here the Shrewsbury in the stove recalled us 
to mundane phenomena, by giving a loud wheeze. 

‘‘ There she blows ! ” cried Locksley. 

He grappled the crustaceous grandee with the 
tongs, and popped him on a plate. A little fra- 
grant steam issued from the calcined lips, invit- 
ingly parted. 

“ Roast oysters,” says Locksley, ‘‘ always 
wheezes when they ’re done to a bulge. If you 
want ’em done dry, wait till the music ’s all 
cooked out of ’em. This is a bulger,” he con- 
tinued, deftly whisking off the top shell. Down 
it, Mr. Dreeme, without winking ! ” 

Dreeme obeyed. 

• Locksley consigned another of the noble race 
of Shrewsbury to fiery martyrdom. Tlien he 
timied again to the painter. 

“ You won’t go and die again ? ” said he. 


160 


CECIL DREEME. 


' Dreeme smiled, and shook his head. 

“ Not,” says the janitor, with queer earnestness 
of manner, “ that I would n’t come in any time 
on call and help liven you up, howsever dead 
you might be. But it ain’t good for you ; it ’s 
unwholesome, — tell him so, Mr. Byng.” 

“ Be informed, then, Mr. Dreeme,” said I, 

that dying is not good for you. I intend not 
to let you take any more of it. I prescribe in 
stead a generous life, and I hope you will allow 
me to aid in administering the remedy.” 

‘‘That’s right,” says Locksley, “mix in, Mr. 
Byng. And now, if you say so, I ’ll run down 
and get Mr. Stillfleet’s volcano and stew-pan to 
stew the Blue-Pointers. They ’re waiting, mild 
as you please, and not getting a fair show.” 

The busy fellow bustled off. 

“ Mixing in is my trade,” said I. “ I am a 
chemist. Pardon me if I seem to mingle myself 
too far and too soon in your affairs.” 

“ I feel no danger from you, Mr. Byng. I 
accept most gratefully your kind and gentleman- 
like interference.” 

He spoke with marked dignity. Indeed, al- 
though the circumstances of our meeting had 
brought us so near together, the reserve and set- 
tled self-possession of his manner kept me at a 
wide distance. No fear tliat he would not pro 
tect himself against intrusion. 


CECIL DREEME. 


161 


L^cksley now reappeared with the stew-pan 
and alcoliol-lamp. He went at liis cookery with 
a hhin dering frenzy of good-will. It was quite 
idle for Dreeme to protest that he would be killed 
by this culinary kindness. 

“ Just one Blue-Pointer ! ’’ says the janitor- 
cook, forking out a little oyster of pearly com- 
plexion from where it lay heads and points 
among its fellows. “ Just one ! It ’ll top off 
the Shrewsburys, as a feather tops off a com- 
modore.” 

The bristly fellow’s earnestness, as he stood 
seductively holding up the neat morsel, was so 
comic, that Dreeme let himself laugh heartily. 

I had lieard no laugh since Densdeth’s at the 
Cliuzzlewit dinner-table. That scoffing tone of 
his which broke in upon my queries to Churm 
regarding Cecil Dreeme was still in my ears. 
The memory of Densdeth’s laugh still misrepre- 
seiited to me all laughter. Laugliter, if I took 
tliat as its type, was only the loud sneer of a 
ruthless cynic. Such a laugh made honor seem 
folly, truth weakness, generosity a bid for richer 
requital, chivalry the hypocrisy of a knave. 

I was hardly conscious how much faith liad 
gone out of me, expelled by his sneering tone, 
until Dre erne’s musical, child-like laugh redressed 
the wrong. Instantly the wound of Densioth’s 
cynicism was healed. I was freshened again, and 

K 


162 


CECIL DREEME. 


tuned anew to all sweet influences. Honor 
seemed wisdom ; truth the only strength ; gener- 
osity its own reward ; chivalry the expression in 
manners of a loyal heart. All the brave joyous 
ness of my nature responded to this laugh of 
Dreeme’s, and spoke out boldly in my echoing 
one. Each of us perceived new sympathy in the 
other. 

Locksley now made his reappearance with the 
volcano. The oysters crackled in the stove, 
fizzed and bubbled over the lamp on the table. 

The poetic temperament takes in happiness and 
good cheer as a bud takes sunshine. Dreeme 
expanded more and more. His silver laugh 
flowed free in chastened merriment. He seemed 
to forget that an hour ago he had been dying, 
friendless and alone ; to forget whatever sorrow 
or terror had driven him to this unnatural se- 
clusion, up in the shabby precincts of Clirysalis 
College. 

We were a merry trio. Reaction after the 
anxiety of the evening exhilarated me to my 
best mood. Locksley too was in high feather 
His harangue at Selleridge’s had loosed his 
tongue, — never in truth a very tight one, — 
and he vented no end of odd phrases over the 
banquet. 

Stillfleet’s antique flasks and goblets figured 
decorously at the board. They were spectators 


163 


CECIL DREEME. 

rathe?' than actors. The janitor piopoi-ed Mr. 
Dreeme’s health. 

“ I hardly expected, Locksley,” said I in reply, 
‘‘ when Stillfleet warned you that I would try to 
introduce the Orgie here, that you were to be 
my chief abettor.” 

“ The mildest Orgie ever known ! ” said 
Dreeme. 

“ Rather a feast of thanksgiving. But shall 
we end it now ? I see you grow weary.” 

“ I do, healthily weary. Ah, Mr. Byng ! you 
cannot conceive the blissful revulsion in my life 
since last night, when I fell asleep alone aiid 
without hope, — over-weary with Avork, Aveary 
to death of life.” 

“ Would you like me to camp with a blanket 
on your floor, in case you should need aiiy- 
thing ? ” 

“ No,” he replied, rather coldly. “ I shall do 
well. I Avould not incommode you.” 

Good night then, my dear Mr. Dreeme. 
Pray understand that our iieAV friendship must 
not be slept out of existence.” 

No doubt my tone betrayed that his sudden 
cold manner had made me fancy such a result. 

“ 0 no ! ” he said ardently. “ I am not a 
person of many professions, but I do not forget. 
A)>d I need your kindness still, and shall need 
b Pray,” continued he, “keep my secret. I 


1G4 


CECIL DREEME. 


do not wish to be known, niitil my liibcrnatio 
is over. Locksle}’' has been pretty laithfiil tliiu 
far.” 

“ Until Mr. Byng arrived to make a traitor ot 
me,” said the janitor, with compunction. 

‘‘ Such treachery is higher loyalty,” Dre^nie 
rejoined. “ You find me hiding my light under 
a bushel, but don’t suspect me, Mr. Byng, of 
anythiiig worse than a freak, or an ambitious 
fancy.” 

Not either of these, I was sure, from his un- 
hapi)y attempt at a smile as he spoke. But he 
threw himself upon my good faith so utterly, that 
I resolved never to open my eyes, to shut them 
even to any flash of suspicion of his secret that 
any circumstance might reveal. 

“ Good night ! ” And so we parted. 

“We’ve hit the bull’s-eye true,” said Locks- 
ley, as we descended. “ You suited him even 
better than Mr. Churm could have done.” 

“ Mysterious business ! Such an odd place 
to liide in ! And his name on the door, too I ” 

“ Who would think of searching for a run- 
away in a respectable old den like this. Perhaps 
the name is not his. A wrong name puts people 
on tlie wrong scent. It ’s liaving no name that 
is suspicious. And if lie ’d put " Panther,’ instead 
of ‘ Painter,’ on his door, it would n’t have kept 
people away any better. Who goes to a young 


CECIL DREEME. 


165 


painter’s door? They have trouble enough to 
get any notice.” 

“ I believe you are right. Will you come in 
and let me give you a cigar ? ” 

“ No I thank you, sir. Miss Locksley has got 
a natural nose against tobacco. If I go to bed 
scented, she ’ll wake up and scallop me with 
questions. Good night, sir.” And ,we parted 
at the main staircase. 

“ A full day,” I thought, as I entered my 
room. No danger of my being bored, if events 
crowd in this way in America. Here certainly 
is romance. Destiny has brought Cecil Dreeme 
and me together without a break-down on his 
side of the ceiling, or a pistol-shot from me below. 
Poor fellow ! who knows but, even so young, lie 
has had some cruel experience like Churm’s ? 
But hold ! I must not pry into iiis affaii*s. I 
might strike tragedy, and tragedy I do not love. 
So to bed, and no dreams of Dreeme. 


CHAPTER XY. 


A MORNING WITH DENSDETH. 

1 SLEPT late after our gentle Orgie, my tecoml 
night on shore. 

A loud rapping awoke me. 

I opened. Churm was- at the door, stout stick 
in hand, stout shoes on Ids feet, stout coat on 
Ids back, — the sturdiest man to be seen, search 
a continent for his fellow ! He had tlie Herculean 
air of one who has been out giving the world a 
lift by way of getting an appetite for breakfast. 

‘‘ Good morning,” said he, marching in. “ This 
will never do,y my tallish young Saxon, come 
home to work ! ” 

“ What ? ” 

‘‘ Nine A. M., and your day’s task not begun! ” 

‘‘ I worked too late last night.” 

At the mysteries of your trade ? I doubt if 
you encoiinjtered a deeper one than I in my 
watch.” 

‘‘ Perhaps, and perhaps not. What was yours ? ” 

“ The heart of a wrong-doer.” 

That transcends my trade’s methods of an 


CECIL DREEME. 


167 


‘‘ And in this case, my powers.” 

“ You are speaking of your protege^ Towner,” 
said I, going on with my toilette. 

‘‘ Of him. He has a confession to make to 
me. He dares not quite confess. He comes up 
timorously, like a weak-kneed horse to his leap ; 
then he seems to see something on the other 
side ; he flinches and sheers into a Serbonian bog 
of lies.” 

‘‘ Afraid of the consequences of confession ? ” 

“ Not of the ordinary punishment of guilt, 
nor of any ordinary revenge from his ancieiit 
master in evil.” 

“ Namely, as you allege, Densdeth.” 

Densdeth.” 

“ I shall grow perverse enough to take Dens- 
deth’s part, and cast my shell to de-ostracize him 
from his moral ostracism, if I hear him called 
The Unjust by all the world.” 

Don’t be Quixotic, Byng. There is more 
vanity than generosity in that.” 

“ And wliat dreadful vengeance does your weak- 
ling fear ? ” 

‘‘ He thinks that, if he betrays his master, he 
sliall never save himself from that master’s clutch. 
Densdetli will pursue liiin and debase his soul 
tlirougli all the eternities, as he has clone iu thk 


‘’Quite a uiolajjhysical distress' 


^ % 


lo8 


CEOIL DREEME. 


‘‘ Don’t laugh at him ! It is a real agony with 
him ; and who knows but the danger is real ? ” 
“You do not get at what the poor devil has 
done in which you are interested ? ” 

“ Not at all. And his moral struggle with 
himself, and defeat, have plunged him back into 
such pitiable weakness of body, that we have lost 
all we had gained. .The doctor says that it will 
kill him to see me again for weeks.” 

“ So Densdeth is respited. Well, I will study 
him in the interval, and find out for myself 
whether he is ‘ main de fer^ sous patte de ve~ 
lours.’ ” 

“ Very well, Byng ; I see you are resolved to 
buy your experience. Densdeth has magnetized 
you. He does most young men.” 

“ I don’t know yet whether I shall turn to him 
my positive or negative pole. He may repel, 
instead of attracting, as soon as I get within his 
sphere. I acknowledge that I am drawn to him.” 

“ Now then, enough of such topics. My vigils 
have given me an appetite. I want to reverse 
‘ qui dort dine^ and read ‘ qui dejeune dort.’ ” 

“ Where shall we go ? Chuzzlewit, Patrick 
rampant, flannel cakes, and Densdeth ? ” 

“ No ; a better place. The Minedurt, close by.” 
“ Unpropitious name ! ” 

• “ Surnames go by contraries. This is old 
Knickerbocker. It should read ‘ The Grotto of 
Neatness,’ instead of the ‘ Minedurt.’ ” 


CECIL DREEME. 


too 


All avenue — The Avenue — flows up hill, 
northward, from the middle of Ailanthus Square. 
Churm conducted me a few blocks along that 
channel of wealth. He stopped in front of the 
Minedurt, a hotel with restaurant attached. Re- 
spectable could not have been more distinctly 
stamped upon a building, if it liad been written 
up in a great label across the front, and in a 
luindred little labels everywhere, like the big rod 
Ten and the little red tens on a bank-bill. 

“ Notice that large house across the street,’^ 
said Churm, halting before this respectable estab- 
lishment. 

“I do. It is nearer civilization than anything 
1 have seen. A fine house. Happy the owner ! 
if lie appreciates architecture.” 

‘‘ Ilajipy ! ” said Churm, bitterly. It is Hen- 
man’s house ! He had ancestral acres here, and 
was one of the first to perceive that the cream 
would settle in his grandfather’s cow-pasture.” 

“ Stop a moment ! The tragedy of my old 
playmate gives the house a strange sanctity in 
my eyes.” 

“It is cursed,” said Churm. “ No happiness 
te its tenants, — only harm to its friends, until 
the wrong done my child there has been ex- 
piated.” 

“ Has not her father’s grief atoned for his 
error ? ” 


ft 


170 


CECIL DREEME. 


“You cannot understand my feelings, Byng 
You did not know Clara Denman.’’ 

1 paused to inspect the mansion, sanctified tc 
me by death. Death sanctifies, birth consecrates 
a home. 

Sanctified ? But the death here was perhaps 
a suicide. So some alleged. Can a suicide sanc- 
tify ? Does it not desecrate ? Do not some 
churches deny the corpse, a self-slayer flung 
away, its hiding-i)lace in holy ground ? No 
suicide near the sleeping saints ! A man may 
strangle himself with good dinners, or poison 
himself with fine old Madeira or coarse old Mo- 
nongahela ; a bad conscience, gnawing day and 
night, may eat away his heart ; he may have 
murdered the woman that once loved him, by 
judicious slow torture ; he may have murdered 
tlie friend that trusted him, by a peevish No, 
when it was help or death ; no matter ! He will 
be allowed as comfortable a grave as a sexton can 
dig, six feet by two in soft soil under green sod, 
and the priest will dust his dust with all the 
compliments in the burial service. But let him 
have put a knife to his throat, or a bullet in his 
bi’ain, because he could not any longer face the 
woman he had wronged, or the friend he had 
betrayed, — what shudders then of sexton and 
priest I No place for him beside the glutton and 
the drunkard ! The cruel husband or the false 


CECIL DREEME. 171 

friend would shiver in his coffin at such ])ropiin 
quity. Out with him ! Out with the accursed 
thing ! To the dogs with the carrion ! 

Not sanctified, — saddened, I could, witliout 
any one’s protest, consider Mr. Denman’s house. 
Hundreds, no doubt, every day envied the happy 
owner. How grand to possess that stately edh 
fice of contrasted freestones, purple and drab ; 
those well-cut pilasters ; that dignified roof, in 
the old chateau manner, fitly capping the whole ; 
that majestic portal ; those great windows, heavi- 
ly draped, but allowing the inner magnificence 
to peer through, conscious, but not ostentatious ; 
— how grand to stand and call this mine ! 

Hundreds, no doubt, envied Mr. Denman every 
day. First in the morning, journeymen, hurry- 
ing by with a poor dinner in a tin canister ; next. 
Tittlebat Titmouse, on his way to the counter ; 
then some clerk of higher degree, seller by the 
piece instead of the yard, by the cargo instead of 
the pound, bustling down town to his desk ; 
next the poor book-keeper, with twelve hundred 
a year, and a mouth to every hundred ; then the 
broken-down merchant, who must show himself 
oh the Street, though the Street noted him iie 
more ; and so on in order, the financial digni 
tary, the club-man lounging to his late breakfast 
or his morning stroll, the country cousin seeing 
die lians, the woman of fashion driving up to 


172 


CECIL DREEME. 


drop a card ; and then at sunset the pretty girl 
walking up town with her lover ; and then at 
night the night-bird skulking by ; — all these 
envied the tenants of the Denman mansion, or 
at least fancied them fortunate. And all houses 
announce as little as that the miseries that may 
dwell within ! 

“ Come, Byng,” said my friend, you cannot 
see into the heart of that house by staring at it.” 

We passed in to our breakfast. Over our 
coffee we glided into cheerful talk. I consulted 
Churm, and he frankly advised me as to my 
future. 

And so, speaking of my own prospects, we 
spoke of the hopes and duties of my generation 
to our country. 

We are the first,” said I, “ who understand 
what an absolute Republic means, and what it 
can do.” 

‘‘The first as a generation. Individuals have 
always comprehended it,” said Churm. 

“ And now, acting together, on a larger scale, 
with a grander co-operation, we will inaugurate 
the new era for the noblest manhood and the 
purest womanhood the world has ever known.” 

I liad spoken ardently. 

At once, as if in echo to my words, I heard 
Densdetli’s cynic laugli behind me. 

My enthusiasm perished. 


CECIL DREEME 


m 


1 turned uneasily. Was Densdeth laugliing 
ai my silly boyish fervors ? 

He was sitting two tables off, breakfasting with 
a well-known man about town. Densdeth’s com- 
panion was one of those who have beauty which 
they debase, talents which they bury, money 
which they squander. He was a man of fine 
genius, but genius under a murky cloud, flash- 
ing out rarely in a sad or a scornful way. A 
man sick of himself, sorry for himself. A wasted 
life, hating itself for its waste, wearing itself out 
with self-reproach that it was naught. Some 
evil influence had clutched him after his first 
success and his first sorrow. Thenceforth his 
soul was paralyzed. The success had nurtured 
a lazy pride, instead of an exalting ambition. 
The sorrow had made him tender to himself and 
hard to others. What was that evil influence ? 
Could it be in the dark face beside him ? 

Densdeth nodded to me familiarly, as I turned. 

“ Don’t forget,” said he, “ our appointment at 
one. You know Raleigh, I believe.” 

Mr. Raleigh and 1 bowed cordially. 

We had met in Europe ^ We had sympathized 
on art and nature. I had touched only his bettei 
side, tliough I saw tlie worse. I liked Raleigli 
and fancied, as a boy fancies, that I had a certaii 
power over him, and that for good. 

We all ros(^ together after our breakfast. 


174 


CECIL DREEME. 


Are you killing time, or nursing it, Byng ? ” 
said Dcnsdeth. 

Killing it for a day or two, until I acclimate 
to the atmosphere of work.” 

“ Unless you have something better to do, drop 
over with us to the club. You must know the 
men. We will have a game of billiards until 
one.” 

Yes, come, Byng,” invited Baleigh’s sweet 
voice. 

“ Thank you,” I said. “ Business, in the form 
of Mr. Ciiurni, deserts me. Pleasure woos. I 
yield.” 

“ Take care ! ” said Cliiirm to me, as we walked 
away. “ I see you insist upon personal expe- 
rience.” 

“ 0 yes ! Nothing vicarious for me ! I will 
nibble at our friend. I ’ll try not to bite, for fear 
of the poison you threaten.” 

Churm left us, and walked across Ailanthus 
Square, on his way down town. 

“ I must look in at my quarters for a moment,” 
said I to the others ; will you lounge on, and 
let me overtake you, or honor me with a 'sdsit ? ” 

“ Let us drop in, Raleigh,” said Densdeth. I 
am curious to see how the old place looks, with 
Stillfleet’s breezes out and Byng’s calms in.” 

1 did the honors, and then, establishing my 
guests with cigars, I excused myself, and ran up- 


CECIL DREEME. 


175 


stairs to give good morning to Cecil Dreeme. 
Cliurm’s presence and a lively appetite together 
had delayed, this duty. Besides, I had felt that 
he ought not to be disturbed too early. 

I knocked, and spoke my name. The recluse 
might sport oak to the knock alone. 

“ Coming,” responded his gentle voice. 

Presently the door opened enough to admit 
mo, but not to display the interior of the cham- 
ber to any inquisitive passer. 

I was struck, even more than last night, by the 
singular, refined beauty of the youth. And then 
his body was so worn and thin, that his soul 
seemed to get very close to me. 

His personal magnetism — that is, the touch 
of his soul on mine — affected me more keenly 
than before. It was having cumulative influ- 
ence. The mighty medicines for soul and body 
always do. 

And so do the poisons. 

“ You are looking quite vigorous and cheerful 
this morning,” I said, exaggerating a little. “I 
congratulate you on your leap out of death into 

fuiriife.” 

It is to you I owe it,” ho said, with deep 
feeling. 

He grasped my hand, and then dropped it 
suddenly again, as if he feared he was taking 
9 liberty. 


17 ^ 


CECIL PREEME. 


(How exactly I remember every word and 
gesture of those first interviews ! Ah, Cecil 
Dreeme ! how little I fancied then what sal 
vage you were to pay me for my succor !) 

“ You are hard at work again, I see.” I point- 
ed to his palette and brushes. “ Be cautious ! 
Do not overdo it ! You must be under my or- 
ders for a while.” 

I was conscious of claiming this power a 
little timidly, such was the quiet dignity of tlie 
young man. 

I will try to be wiser now, since I have a 
friend who is willing to admonish me.” 

“ Now,” continued he, as if to turn atten- 
tion from himself, ‘‘ look at my picture ! I want 
a slashing criticism. You cannot find faults 
til at I do not see myself.” 

I stepped back to look at it. A work of 
power ! Crude, indeed ; but with force enough 
to justify any crudity. 

Its deep tragedy struck me silent. 

“ Do not spare me,” said Dreeme. Silence 
is severer tlian blame. Say, at least, that it is 
pretty well for a novice, — pretty well consid- 
ing my years and my practice.” 

What has happened to you ? ” said I, staring 
at his pale, worn face. “ What right have you, 
in the happy days of youth, to the knowledge 
that has taught you to paint tragedy <^]ius I 


CECIL DREEME. 


lU 


W“liat miknown agony have you undergone ? 
Mr. D re erne, your picture is a revelation. I 
pity you from my heart.” 

You do not believe,” said he, cvasivcxy, 
thai imagination can supply the want of ex- 
perience ? ” 

Imagination must have experience to trans- 
fuse into new facts. You, of course, have not 
had an unjust father, like your Lear, nor a 
disloyal sister, like your Goneril ; nor have you 
felt a withering curse, as your Cordelia does. 
But tyranny and treachery must have touched 
you. They have initiated you into their modes 
of action and expression. Do not find inquisi- 
tiveness implied in my criticism. I pity you 
too much for the ability and impulse to paint 
thus, to be curious how it came.” 

“ Believe, then,” said Dreeme, and it may 
help you to make allowances for me, tliat I 
know in my own life what tragedy means. 
That experience commands me to do violence 
to my love of beauty and happy scenes, and 
paint agony, as I have done there. And now, 
pray let us be technical. That white drapery, 
— how ’does it fall? Are the lines stiff? Is 
tlierc too mucli starcli in the linen, or too little ? ” 
‘‘ Technicality another time. I am uncivil 
even in delaying so long. Two gentlemen arc 

waiting for me below.” 

8 * 


L 


178 


CECIL DREEMK 


‘‘Your friend, Mr. Gliiirm?” lie asked, look- 
ing away. 

“ No. Mr. Densdeth and Mr. Raleigli.” 

“ Densdetli ! ” said he, with a slight shudder 
“ You see I have the susceptible nerves of an 
artist. I tremble at the mere sound of such 
an ill-omened name. Should you not naturally 
avoid a person called Densdeth ? ’’ And as if 
the sound fascinated him, he repeated, “ Dens- 
deth I Densdeth ! ” 

“ Name and man are repulsive ; but attrac- 
tive also. Attractive by repulsion.” 

“ Take my advice, and obey the repulsion. 
Poisons are not made bitter that we may school 
ourselves to like them. If this person, with a 
boding name, repels you, do not taste him, as 
one tastes opium. Curiosity may make you a 
slave.” 

“ Odd, that you, a stranger, should have the 
Usual prejudice against Densdeth ! ” 

“ Consider that I am as one raised from the 
dead, and so perhaps clairvoyant. I use my 
power to warn you, as you have saved me.” 

“ Thank you,” said I ; “I will see you this 
evening, and tell you how far I am ruined by a 
morning with this beie noir. If he spoils me, you 
must repair the harm.” 

I walked to the door. He released me with tr 
cautious glance into the hall. I ran down stairi? 
and apologized for my delay to my guests. 


CECIL DEEEME. 


179 


*‘It is a privilege to wait, my dear fellow,” 
said Densdetli, ‘Mii such a treasure-liouso. We 
have been looking at these droll old tapestries of 
Purgatory and a hotter place. Raleigh insists 
that the seducing devil, wooing those revellers to 
hell, is my precise image.” 

“No doubt of it,” says Raleigh. “You must 
be Mephistophiles himself. Those fifteenth-cen- 
tury fellows have got your portrait to the life. 
It seems you were at the same business then, as 
now.” 

Densdeth laughed. Raleigh and I laughed in 
answer. Both had caught that mocking tone of 
his. 

“ Not only are you the devil of the tapestry,” 
said Raleigh, “ but I see myself among your vic- 
tims.” 

“ You flatter me,” said Densdeth, again with 
his sinister laugh. 

“Yes, and Byng too, and certain ladies we 
know of. I really begin to be lazily supersti- 
tious. Don’t make it too hot for me, Densdeth, 
when you get me below. I ’ve only been a nega- 
tive sinner in this world, — no man’s enemy but 
my own.” 

Raleigh’s jest was half earnest. That and the 
demonish quality in Densdeth quickened my 
glance at the old altar-cloth, which hung on tin? 
wall, among Stillfleet’s prints and pictuies. 


180 


CECIL DR FEME. 


Under these impressions, I did indeed identify 
Densdetli with the cloven-hoofed tempter in this 
characteristic bit of mediaeval art. Raleigh was 
surely there, in the guise of a languid Bacchanal, 
crowned with drooping vine-leaves. I myself 
was also there, — a youth, only half consenting, 
dragged along by an irresistible attraction. And 
continuing my observations, I recognized other 
friends, faintly imaged in the throng on the tap- 
estry. An angel, looking sadly at the evil one’s 
triumph and my fall, was Cecil Dreeme’s very 
self. And up among the judges sat Churm, ma- 
jestic as a prophet of Michael Angelo. 

“Come,” said Densdeth, — he was by chance 
standing in the exact attitude of the Tempter in 
the tapestry, — “come; we shall have but just 
time for Byng’s introduction and our game of 
billiards.” 

“ Lead on, your majesty I ” said Raleigh. 
“ YtV needs must follow, — to billiards or the 
bottomless pit.” 

We walked to the club. It was tlie crack club 
then. Years ago it went to pieces. Its gentle- 
men have joined better. Its legs and loafers 
have sunk to bar-rooms. 

The loungers there w'ere languid when wo en- 
tered. 

No scandal had yet come up^from AYall Street ' 
none down from Murray Hill. 


CECIL DKEEME. 18i 

The morning was still virgin of any story of 
disaster to character, financial or social. 

The day had not done its duty, — a mere diei 
nori^ and promising only to be dies perdita. 

To be sure it was still a young day. It might 
still ruin somebody, pocket or reputation. Some- 
body, man or woman, might go to protest, and 
shame every indorser, before three o’clock. 

But everybody at the club had made it seven 
bells ; eight bells would presently strike, and no 
sign of the day’s ration of scandal. Tliey could 
not mumble all the afternoon over the stale crusts 
of yesterday ; they could not put bubble into 
yesterday’s heel-taps. Everybody was bored. Life 
was a burden at the windows, by the fire, at the 
billiard-tables, of that rotten institution. 

Densdeth’s arrival made a stir. 

See these gobemoucJies^^’’ whispered Raleigh 
to me. They think Densdeth, the busy man, 
would never come here at this hour in the morn- 
ing, unless some ill had happened, — unless there 
were some new man to jeer, or woman to flout. 
Now sec how he will treat them.” 

The languid loungers lost their air of non- 
chalance. Tlicre was a general move toward 
our party. The click of balls upon the tables 
was still. The players came forward, cue in 
hand. These unknightly knights of the Long 
Tabk stood about us, with the blunted lancei? 


182 


CECIL DREEME. 


of a blunted chivalry, waiting to chuckle over 
the fate of some comrade in the dust, of some 
damsel soiled with scorn. Remember, that these 
were only the baser sort of the members. Heroes 
may sometimes lounge. Real heroes may play 
billiards, like the Phelan, and be heroes still. 

Densdeth’s manner with his auditory was a 
study. 

‘‘ Pigs,’’ he seemed to say, I suppose I must 
feed you. Gobble up this and this, ye rabble 
rout ! Take your fare and my mental kicking 
with ii.” 

Soon he tired of the herd, and led the way to 
a billiaifd-table, apart. 

“I wanted to show you, Byng,” said he, with 
an air of weary disgust, “ wliat kind of men will 
be your associates among the idlers.” 

“ The busy men are nobler, I hope,” said I. 

‘‘ You shall see. I will give you the entree to 
the other worlds, — the business world, the liter- 
ary world, the religious world, all of them. Pos- 
sibly you may not have quite outlived your 
illusions. Possibly you may have fancied that 
men are to be trusted on a new continent. Pos- 
sibly you may believe in the success of a society 
and polity based on the assumption tliat man- 
kind is not an ass when he is not a villain, and 
vice versa,’’^ 

‘‘ I had some such fancy.” 


CECIL DREEME. 


183 


Better be disenchanted now, than disap- 
pointed by and by. Apropos^ don’t suppose I 
often degrade myself to the level of that swinish 
multitude of scandal-mongers. But when I saw 
them so greedy, I could not forbear giving them 
diet, according to their stomachs.” 

‘‘ What an infernal humbug you are, Dens- 
deth ! ” said Raleigh, marking a five-shot; you 
love to spoil those boys, and keep the men spoilt. 
If you were out of the world, they would all 
reform, and go to sucking honey, instead of 
poison.” 

“ We are all humbugs,” rejoined Densdeth ; 
“ I want to put Byng on his guard against me 
and tlic rest. He might get some unhajipy 
notion, that in America men are brave and 
women are pure.” 

I kept my protest to myself, willing to study 
Densdeth furtlier. 

Densdeth led the conversation, as indeed lie 
never failed to do. He was a keen, hard analyzer 
of men, utterly sceptical to good motives. There 
is always just such a proportion of selfishness in 
every man’s every act ; there must be, because 
there is a man in it. It may be the larger half, 
the lesser half, a fraction, the mere dust of an 
atom, that makes the scale descend. Densdeth 
always discovered tlu selfish purpose, put it in 
focus, held up a lens of his own before it. At 


1S4 


CECIL. DREEME. 

once it grew, and spread, and seemed the 
whole . 

Densdetli was the Apostle of Disenchantment 
No paradisiacal innocence where he entered 
He revealed evil everywhere. That was at^the 
core, according to him, however smooth the sur- 
face showed. Power over others consisted in 
finding that out. And that power was the only 
thing, except sensuality, worth having. 

Thus I condense my impressions of him. I 
did not know him, in and in, out and out, after 
this first morning at the club, nor after many 
such meetings. I learnt him slowly. 

Yet I think I divined him from the first. I 
did not state to my own mind, then, why he 
captivated me, — why he sometimes terrified me, 
— why I had a hateful love for his society. In 
fact, the power of deeply analyzing character 
comes with a maturity that I had not attained. 
1 was to pay price for my knowledge. Dens- 
deth’s shadow was to fall upon me. My danger 
with evil personified, in such a man as Densdetli, 
was to sear into mo a profound and saving horror 
of evil. One does not read the moral, until the 
tale is told. 

We played our billiards. One o’clock struck. 
We left Raleigh to be bored with the world and 
sick of himself, to knock the balls about, and 
' wish he had been born a blacksmith or a hod 
carrier. 


185 


, CECIL DREEME. 

Densdeth and I walked to the Denmans. 

“ You will see a very captivating young lady,’^ 
he said, with a sharp and rapid glance at me. 

I was aware of a conscious look. He caught 
it also. 

“ Aha, Byng ! a little tenderness for the old 
playmate ! Well, perhaps she has been waiting 
for you. She has looked coldly on scores of 
lowers.'” • 

Tliere was a familiarity in his tone which 
offended me. It seemed to sneer away the deli- 
cacv 1 felt towards one with whom 1 had childish 
])assages of admiration ten years ago. 1 was 
angry at his disposing of my destiny and liers at 
once. In turn, I looked sharply at him, and said, 
in the same careless tone, “ How does Miss Den- 
man compare with her sister ? ” 

Not a spark of emotion in his impassive face. 
There might have been a slight smile, as if to 
say, “ Tliis boy fancies that he is able to probe 
me, and learn why I courted the less beautifui 
sister, and what I did to drive her mad' and to 
death.” But the smile vanished, and he said, 
quietly : “ We will not speak of the dead, if you 
please. Among the living. Miss Denman stands 
alone. A great prize, Byng ! People that pre- 
tend to know say that Mr. Denman is a million- 
naire. Sec what a grand house he lives in ! ” 

“ Grand houses somtstirnes make million uairoi 


186 


CECIL DKEEME. 


paupers,” I remarked, thinking of what Churn; 
had told me. 

“ I am quite sure no pauper owns this,” Dens- 
deth said, measuring it with a look, as we walked 
up the steps. 

I remembered what Churm had said, and 
fancied I saw at least mortgagee, if not pro- 
prietor, in my companion’s .eye. Was he in- 
specting to see if his house needed a* trowelful 
of mortar, or a gutter repaired ? 


CHAPTER XYI. 


EMMA DENMAN. 

Densdeth rang. We were admit! ed at once. 
The footman introduced us into a parlor fronting 
on the avenue. The interior of the house was 
worthy of its stately arcliitecture. I do not de- 
scribe. People, not things, passions, not objects, 
are my topics. 

Presently, in a mirror at the end of the long 
suite of rooms, I was aware of the imaged figure 
of a young lady approaching. Semblance before 
substance, instead of preparing me for the inter- 
view, it almost startled me. I half fancied that 
shadowy reflection to be the spirit of the dead 
sister watching. The living sister was coming in 
the body ; the presence of the sister dead tarried 
in the background, curious to see what would 
grow from the germ of a childish friendship re- 
vived. 

In a moment tlie lady herself stepped forward. 

No thought of shadows any more ! 

She, tlie substance, took a stand among tha 
Soremost figures in my drama. 


188 


CECIL DREEME. 


Tlic effect of the room where I sa,t was ricli 
and festal, almost to the verge of gorgeonsness. 
Had sorrow dared to intrude among such courtly 
splendors ? Carpets thick with the sunburnt 
flowers of late summer, — had these felt the trail- 
ing step that carries grief on to another moment 
of grief ? Heavy crimson curtains, — must these 
have uttered muffled echoes when a sigh, out- 
ward bound, drifted against their folds ? And 
deep-toned pictures, full of victory and jubilee, — 
could they not outface the t)ale countenance of 
mourning in that luxurious room ? It made 
the power of sorrow and the bitterness of death 
seem far more giant in their strength, that they 
had crowded in hither, and hung a dim film 
of funereal black before all this magnificence. 

Crimson was the chief color in carpet, cur- 
tains, and walls. This deep, rich background 
magically heightened the effect of the pale, ele- 
gant figure in deep mourning who was approach- 
ing. 

Emma Denman passed in front of the mirror, 
erasing her own reflection there. She came 
forward, and offered her hand to mo with shy 
cordiality. The shyness remembered the old 
familiar playmate of the days of “ little lius- 
band and little wife ” ; the cordiality was for the 
uiiiorgotten friend. 

I found no change, only development, in Emma 


CECIL DREEME. 


18 f) 


D< liman. Still the same fitful fascination that 
had been her charm as a child. It seized me at 
once. 1 lost my power of quiet discrimination. 
I can hardly analyze her power even now. These 
subtle influences refuse to be subject to my chem- 
ical methods and my formulas. 

It was not the power of beauty, alone. Physi- 
cal beauty she had, but something liigher also. 
Nor spiritual beauty alone, but something otlicr. 
The mere fiesh-and-blood charms, lilies and 
roses, the commonplace traits of commonplace 
women, whose inventory describes the woman, 
she could afford to disdain. It was a face that 
forbade all formal criticism. No passport face. 
Other women one names beautiful for a feature, 
a smile, or a dimple, — that link between a 
feature and a smile. Hers was a face suffused 
with the fine essence of beauty. It seemed to 
wrong the whole, if one let eyes or mind make 
any part distinct. 

Grace she had, — exquisite grace. Grace is 
perha})s a more subtle charm tlian beauty. Beau- 
ty is passive ; grace is active. Beauty reveals 
the nature ; grace interprets it. Beauty wins ; 
grace woos. 

Emma Denman’s coloring did not classify licr. 
Her hair was in the indefinite sliadcs between 
liglit and dark. One would not expect from her 
the steadiness of the fair temperaments, no/ tlie 


190 


CECIL DREEME. 


ardor of their warmer counterparts in line. Nc 
dismissing her with the label of a well-known 
type. I must have a new and composite thought 
in my mind while I curiously studied her. 

Her eyes wanted color. They were not blue 
and constant, not black and passionate. Indeed, 
but for their sparkle and vivacity, they would 
have seemed expressionless. Restless eyes ! they 
miaht almost have taken a lesson from Dens 
deth’s, so rapid were they to come and go, so 
evanescent and elusive was their glance. But 
Densdeth’s were chasing eyes ; liers were flying. 
Her swift eyes, her transitory smile, her motions, 
soft as the bend of a branch, light as the spring 
of a bird, lithe as the turn of a serpent, all were 
elements in her singular fascination, — it was 
almost elfin. 

She was in deep mourning ; and, partly be- 
cause mourning quickens sympatliy, partly be- 
cause to a person of her doubtful coloring 
positive contrasts arc valuable, it seemed the 
very dress to heighten her beauty. And yet, 
as I saw lier afterwards, I found that all costume 
and scenery became thus tributary to her, and 
all objects and people so disposed themselves, 
and all liglits and shades so fell, as to define 
and intensify her charm. 

Densdetli witnessed our recognition, and tlien 
excused himself. “ He had business with Mr 


CECIL DREEME. 


191 


Denman in the library, and would join ns by 
and by.” We both breathed freer upon his 
exit. It was impossible not to feel that he was 
always reading every act and thought ; and that 
consciousness of a ruthless stare turned in upon 
one’s little innocencves of heart is abashing to 
young people. 

Miss Denman had seemed uneasy while Dens- 
deth stayed. She changed her seat, and with it 
her manner, as lie departed. The chair she 
now took brouglit her again within range of 
the distant mirror. Her shadow became a third 
party in our interview. When I observed it, 
its presence disturbed me. Sometimes, as before, 
I fancied it the sprite of the sister dead, some- 
times the double of the person before me, — her 
true self, or her false self, which she had dis- 
missed for this occasion, while she made her 
impression upon me. 

Strange fancies ! faintly drifting across my 
mind. But I did not often observe that dim 
watcher in the mirror. My companion engaged 
me too closely. Now that Densdeth was gone, 
we sat ill quiet mood, and let our old ac- 
quaintaiiae renew itself. 

Our talk was hardly worth clironicling. Words 
cannot convey th-e gleam of pleasure with which 
our minds alighted together on the same mem- 
ory of days gone by, as we used to spring upon 


192 


CECIL DREEME. 


a flower in the field, or a golden butterfly by 
the wayside. 

“ Ah ! those sorrowless days of childhood ! 

I said. ‘‘Not painless, — not quite painless!” 

“ There are never any painless days,” said she. 

“ No. Pain is the elder brother of Pleasure. 
But the days when the sense of injury passed 
away with the tears it compelled ; when the 
sense of wrong-doing vanished with the liglit 
penance of a pang, with the brief penitence 
of an hour, and left the heart untainted. Those 
days were sorrowless.” 

As I spoke thus, Emma Denman suddenly 
burst into tears. 

I had not suspected her of any such uncon- 
trollable emotion. She had seemed to me one 
to smile and flash, hardly earnest enough for 
an agony. 

“ Pardon me,” she said, quelling her tears, 
“ but since those bright days I have suffered 
bitter sorrow. As you, my old playmate, speak, 
all that has passed since we met comes up 
newly.” 

This was all she said, at the moment, of her 
gister’s death. I respected the recent Avound. 
I had no right to renew her distress even by 
sympathy. I changed the subject. 

“ I find myself,” said I, “ between two oppo- 
sites, as guardians for my second childhood at 


CECIL DREEME. 


103 


home. Mr. Cliurm is to launch me upon my 
work. ^Ir. Densdeth introduces me at the 
club. Which snail my boysliip obey ? ” 

“ Such opposites will neutralize each other. 
You will be left free for a guardian in my 
sex. Have you sought one yet ? ” 

“ Destiny selects for me. I am tlirust into 
your hands. Will you take me in charge ? ” 
The look she gave as I said this touched me 
strangely. It seemed as if her double had sud- 
denly glided forward and peered at me through 
her evasive eyes. A mysterious expression. I 
could no more comprehend it from my present 
shallow knowledge of the lady, than a novice 
perceives why Titian’s surface glows, until he has 
scraped the surface and knows the undertones. 

‘‘ Will I take you in cliarge ? ” she rejoined, 
with this strange look, henceforth my controlling 
memory of her face. “ Will you trust me wuth 
such grave office ? What say the other guar- 
dians ? Do they recommend me ? Does Mr. 
Churm ? Have you consulted him ? ” 

“ Churm has rather evaded forming a prejudice 
in your favor in my mind. He gave me no ideal 
to alter. I had no counter-charm of the fancy 
to oppose to your actual charm.” 

“ Your other clioice among mentors, Mr. Dens- 
deth, — has he offered you any light upon m* 
qualifications ? ” 

9 M 


194 


CECIL DREEME. 


Not a word ! But lie is not my clioico. He 
has chosen me, if our companionship is choice, 
not cliance.” 

You accept him ? ” 

‘‘ I have not thought of rejecting a man of such 
peculiar power.” 

“ Has he mastered you, too ? ” 

“ Mastered ? I am my own master. He at- 
tracts my curiosity greatly. I cannot resist the 
desire to know him by heart.” 

“ To know him by heart ! ” she repeated, with 
almost a shudder. “ To know Densdeth by 
heart ! Study him, then, for yourself ! I will 
give you no help ! No help from me ! God for- 
bid ! ” 

I must have looked, as I felt, greatly surprised 
at this outburst, for she recovered her usual 
manner, with an effort, and said : ‘‘ Pardon me, 
again ! Do not let me prejudice you against Mr. 
Densdeth. He is our friend, our best friend ; 
but sometimes I suddenly have superstitious pan- 
ics when I think of him and my sister’s death.” 

She seemed to struggle now against a flood of 
sorrowful recollections. The force of the strug- 
gle carried her over to the side of gayety. 

Smiles create smiles more surely than yawns 
yawns. I yielded readily to Miss Denman’s gay 
mood. She threw off the depression of the (^arly 
moments of our interview. “This should be a 


CECIL DREEME. 


195 


merry hour/’ her almost reckless manner said, 
“ be the next what it might.” 

All the while, as we sat in the crimson dimness 

of that luxurious room, — she eager, animated, 

flashing from thought to thought, talking as an 

old friend who has yearned for friendship and 

sympathy might talk to an old friend who has 

both to give, — all the while, as she lield me 

« 

bound by her witchery, her shadow in the distant 
mirror sat, a ghostly spy. 

She was in the midst of a lively sketch of tlui 
society I was to know under her auspices, when 
all at once a blight came upon her spirits. She 
paused. Her color faded. Her eyes became 
flighty. Her smile changed to a look of pain. 
She shivered slightly. These were almost im- 
perceptible tokens, felt rather than perceived. 

Steps approached as I was regarding tliis 
transformation with a certain vague alarm, such 
as one feels at a doubtful sound, that may be a 
cry for help, by night in a forest. In a moment 
Densdeth entered the room. Witli him was a 
large man, of somewhat majestic figure, a marked 
contrast to the slender grace of Densdeth, .This 
new-comer was following, not leading, as if not 
he, but Densdeth, were the master in the house. 

Mr. Denman ! As he came up the suite of 
parlors, I could observe him, form, mien, and 


manner. 


19G 


CECIL DREEME. 


Without any foreknowledge of him, I might 
have said, “An over-busy man, — a man over- 
weighted with social responsibilities. Too many 
banks choose him director. Too many compa- 
nies want his administrative power. Too many 
charities must have him as trustee. One of tlie 
Caryatides of society. No wonder that he looks 
weary and his shoulders stoop. No wonder at 
his air of uneasy patience, or perhaps impatient 
endurance and eagerness to be free ! ” 

But Churm had told me of other burdens this 
proud, self-confident man must bear. I could 
not be surprised that Mr. Denman looked old 
beyond his years, and tliat as he spoke his eyes 
wandered off, and stared vaguely into his own 
perplexities. 

He received me cordially. His manner had a 
certain broken stateliness, as of a defeated sov- 
ereign, to whom his heart says, “ Abdicate and 
die.” As he welcomed me to his house, he 
glanced at Densdeth. Did he fear a smile on 
tliat dark, cruel face, and a look which said, “ 0 
yes ! you may keep up the pretence of lordship 
lierc a little longer, if you enjoy the lie ! ” 

“ You are an old friend, Mr. Byng. Robert, I 
am happy to see you again,” said Mr. Denman. 
“ You must be at home with us. We dine at six 
You will always find a plate. Come to-day, if 
you have no pleasanter engagement.” 


CECIL DREEME. 


197 


Miss Denman’s look repeated the invitation. 

I accepted. The old intimacy was renewed. 
And renewed with a distincter purpose on my 
part, because I said to myself, Who knows but 
I may, with my young force, aid this worn and 
weary man to shake off the burden that oppresses 
him, and frustrates or perverts his life, — be it 
tlie mere dead weight of an old error, — be it 
the lacerating grapple of a crime ? ” 

And now the tale of my characters is com- 
plete. This drama, short and sad, marches, 
without much delay, to its close. If I have, in 
any scene thus far, dallied with details that may 
seem trivial, let me be pardoned ! It may be 
that I have flinched, as I looked down the vista of 
my story, and discerned an ending of its path 
within some sombre cavern, like a ])lace of sejiul- 
turc. It may be that I have purposely halted to 
pluck the few pale flowers which grew along my 
road, and to listen a moment to the departing 
laugh, and the departing echoes of the laugh, of 
every merry comrade, as he went his way, and 
left me to fare as I miglit along my own. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


A MORNING WITH CECIL DREEME. 

Through Cliiirm’s active friendship, I at once 
found my place. I have mentioned my profes- 
sion, — chemistry. I was wanted in the world. 
Better business came to me tlian a professorship 
at the Terryhiitte University, salary Muddefon- 
taine bonds, or a post at the Nolachiicky Poly- 
technic, salary Cumberland wild lands. 

Churm only waited to establish me, and then 
was off, north, south, east, and west. It was one 
of those epochs when mankind is in a slough of 
despond, and must liave a lift from Hercules. It 
was a time when society, that drowsy Diogenes, 
was beginning to bestir itself after a careless 
slumber, and, holding up the great lantern of 
public opinion to find honest men, suddenly re- 
vealed a mighty army of rogues. Rogues every- 
where ; scurvy rogues in mean places, showy 
rogues in high places ; rogues cheating for cents 
in cheap shops, rogues defrauding for millions in 
splendid bank parlors ; princely rogues, claiming 
»>rin«ely salaries for unprofitable services, and 


CECIL DREEME. 


199 


puny rogues, corrupted by such example, steal- 
ing the last profits to eke out their puny pay and 
give them their base pleasures ; potent rogues, 
buttoning up a million’s worth of steamships or 
locomotives in their fob, and rogues, as potent for 
ill on a smaller scale, keeping back the widow’s 
mite, and storing the orphan’s portion with the 
usurer. Rogues everywhere ! and the great, 
stern, steady eye of public opinion, at last fully 
open and detecting each rogue in the place he 
had crept or strode into, marking him there in 
his dastard shame or haughty bravado, and brand- 
ing him Thief, so that all mankind could know 
him. 

In this crisis. Society’s great eye of Public 
Opinion turned itself upon Churm, and demand- 
ed him as The Honest Man. Society’s unani- 
mous voice called upon him to put his shoulder 
to the wheel. Society said, ‘‘ Be Dictator ! de- 
throne, abolish, raze, redeem, restore, construct ! 
Condemn ; forgive ! Do what you please, — only 
oust Roguery and instate Honesty.” 

This gigantic task engaged Churm totally. I 
lost him from my daily life. 

It was a busy, practical life, — the life of one 
who had his way to work ; and yet not with- 
out strange and unlooked-for excitements, in the 
region of romance. 

My comrades in Europe, countrymen and for 


200 


CECIL DREEME. 


eigiiers, had condoled with me on my departure 
for home. 

Going back to America ! ” said they, to 
that matter-of-fact country, inhere everything is 
in the newspapers.” 

You that have lived in Italy ! ” deplored my 
romantic friends, — in Italy, where skeletons in 
closets are packed scores deep ; where you can 
scarcely step without treading on a murder-stain ; 
where if a man hut sigh in his bedchamber, when 
he loosens his waistcoat, the old slumbering sighs, 
which chronicle old wrongs done in that palace, 
awake and will not sleep until they have whis- 
pered to each other and to the affrighted stranger 
their tale of a misery ; where the antique dagger 
you use for a paper-cutter lias rust-marks that 
any chemist will say mean maiden’s blood ; where 
the old chalice you buy at a bargain gives a mild 
flavor of poison to your wine ; — you that have 
lived in richly historied Italy, where tlie magnifi- 
cent past oversliadows the present, what will you 
find to interest you in a country where there is 
no past, no yesterday, and if no yesterday, no 
to-day worth having, — but life one indefinitely 
adjourned to-morrow ? ” 

Poor Byng ! Romantic fellow 1 Why, un 
less there should be a raid of Camanches oi 
Pawnees from the Ohio country,” said my Eu- 
ropean friends, with a refreshing ignorance of 


CECIL DREEME 


201 


geography, — “ unless there sliould come a stan> 
pede of the red-skinned gentry to snatcli a 
scalp or a squaw in the Broadway of Now 
York, you will positively pine away for lack of 
adventures.” 

“ What a bore to dwell in a land wliere there 
are no sbirri to whisk you off to black dungeons ! 
' How tame ! a life where no tyrannies exist to 
whisper against always, to growl at on anniver- 
saries, to scream at when tliey pounce on you, to 
roar at when you pounce on them. Yes, what 
stupid business, existence in a city where nobody 
has more and nobody less than fifteen hundred 
dollars a year, paid quarterly in advance ; where 
there is such simple, easy, matter-of-fact pros- 
perity that no one is ever tempted to overstep 
bounds and grasp a bigger share than bis neigh- 
bors ; and so there is never any considerable 
wrong done to any one ; — no wrong, and con- 
sequently liearts never break, and there can bo 
no need of mercy, pity, or pardon.” 

“ Why, B^mg ! life without shade, life all bald, 
garish steady sunshine, may do to swell wheat 
and puff cabbage-heads ; but man needs some- 
thing other than monotony of comfort, some- 
thing keener than the stolid pleasures of deacon- 
ish respectability. Byng,” said my Florentine, 
Heidelberg, or Parisian comrades, each in their 
own language and manner, “ Byng, you will 

9 * 


202 


CECIL DREEME. 


actually starve for poetry and romance in thal 
detestably new country.” 

I confess that I had had some fears on tliis 
subject, myself. 

I had made up my mind to drop into syste- 
matic existence, cut fancy, eschew romance, ban- 
ish dreams, and occupy my digestion solely on a 
diet of commonplace facts. 

I might have known that man cannot live on 
corporeal, mundane facts alone, unless he can 
persuade his immortality to forget him, and leave 
liim to crawl a mere earth-worm, dirt to dirt, 
until he is dust to dust. 

As to romance, I might have known, if I had 
considered the subject, that wherever youth and 
maiden are, there is the certainty of romance 
and the chance of tragedy. I might have known 
that the important thing in a drama is, what the 
characters are, and what they do, not the scenes 
wliere they stand while they are acting. In the 
tlieatre, people are looking at the lover and the 
lady, not at the balustrade and the tower. 

But though I might have known that the story 
of Life and Love is just as potent to create itself 
a fitting background when it is acted anew on a 
new stage, as when it is announced for repetition 
with the old familiar, musty properties, I had, 
indeed, been somewhat bullied by the unreflect- 
ing talk just (pioted. I liad fancied that thc» 


CECIL DREEME. 


208 


play could not go on without antiquated stuff 
to curtain it, dry-rotted boards for it to tread, 
and a time-worn drop for it to stand out against 
I was sceptical as to the possibility of a novel 
and beautiful development of romance under the 
elms of a new land, in the streets of its new 
cities. I had adopted the notion of Europe, and 
Europe-tainted America, that my country was 
indeed very big, very busy, very prosperous, but 
monstrously dull, tame, and prosaic. 

Error! Worse, — mere stupid blindness! 

My first plunge into life at home proved it. 
See how my very first day became over-crowded 
with elements of interest and romance, — nay, of 
mysterious and tragic excitement ! 

Even the ancient scenery, whether important 
or not to the progress of the drama, had packed 
itself up, and followed my travels. Stillfleet’s 
cliambers were an epitome of the whole Past, — 
that is to say, of the Past as leading to the Pres- 
ent and interpreting it. Stillfleet had concen- 
trated the essence of all the ages in his informal 
museum. I had but to glance about, and I had 
travelled over all terrestrial space, and lived 
through all human centuries. He had relics 
from all the famous camps in the great march 
of mankind. He had examples, typical objects, 
to show what every age and every race had 
contributed to the common stock. By art on 


204 


CECIL DKEEME. 


his walls, by books in the library, by objects of 
curious antiquity, even by the grotesque fabrics 
and contrivances of savages and transitory tribes 
of men, all distributed about in orderly disorder, 
I could study history at a glance, or rather absorb 
history with unconscious eyes. 

Scenery ! I need but to look into the Egyp- 
tian corner of my chamber, and, if I took an} 
interest in the life of the Pharaohs, there it wa? 
in a pictured slab from the Memnonium ; or in 
the dead Pharaoh, there himself was grinning 
in a mummy-case, — a very lively corpse, — un- 
pleasantly lively, indeed, when niglits were dark, 
and matches flashed brimstone and refused to 
burn. 

Scenery ! Greece and Rome, Dark Ages, Cru- 
sades, Middle Ages, Moorish Conquest, ’88 in 
England, Renaissance, ’89 in France, every old 
era and the last new era, — all w^ere so thor- 
oughly represented here, by model of temple, 
cast of statue, vase, picture, tapestry, suit of 
armor, Moslem scymitar, bundle of pikes, rusty 
cross-bow or arquebuse, model of guillotine, — by 
some object tliat sliowed what tlie age had most 
admired, most used, or most desired, — that 
there, restored before me, rose and spread tlie 
age itself, and called its heroes and its caitiffs 
forward in i*eviow. 

If I preferred to live in the Past, I had only to 


CECIL DREEME. 


205 


shut myself up at home, and forget that eager 
Present about me, — that stirring life of Amor 
ica, urged on by the spirit of the Past, and un- 
burdened by its matter. 

Romance, too ! Romance had come to me, 
whether I would or no. Without any permis- 
sion of mine, asked or granted, I was become an 
actor, with my special part to play, perforce, 
among mysteries. 

Cecil Dreeme. 

Emma Denman. 

Densdeth. 

My connection with these three characters 
grew daily closer. I do not love mystery. Igno- 
rance I do not hate ; for ignorance is the first 
condition of knowledge. Mystery I recoil from. 
It generally implies the concealment of some- 
thing that should not be concealed, for the sake 
of delusion or deception ; or if not for these, 
because tragedy will follow its revelation. 

Cecil Dreeme continued to me a profound 
mystery. He kept Iiimself utterly secluded by 
day, working hard at his art. He knew no one 
but myself. No one ever saw him except myself 
and Locksley, or Locksley’s children. Only at 
night, wrapped in his cloak, did he emerge from 
bis seclusion, and wander over the dim city. 

I became his companion in these walks when- 
ever my engagements allowed ; but such night 


206 


CECIL DREEME. 


wandering seemed unliealtlij for him in his deli 
cate state. ‘ 

‘‘ Are you wise, Dreeme,” said I to him, one 
morning, in his studio, after we had become in- 
timate, “ to live this nocturnal life ? Sunshine 
and broad daylight are just as indispensable to 
man as they are to flower or plant. I might give 
you good chemical reasons for my statement.” 

“ There are night-blooming flowers, — the 
Cereus, and others,” said he, avoiding my ques- 
tion. 

“ Yes, but they owe their blossom to the day’s 
accumulation of sunshine. Botany refuses to 
protect you.” 

Plants grow by night.” 

In night that follows sunny day.” 

‘‘ I accept the analogy. I have accumulated 
sunsliine enough, I hope, for growth, and per 
haps for a pallid kind of bloom, in my past 
sunny days. My rank growth went on vigoi- 
ously enough in the daylight. I am conscious 
of a finer development in the dark.” 

“ But I do not like this voluntary prison.” 

“ Few escape a forced imprisonment, longer 
or shorter, in their lives. Illness or sorrow 
shut us in away from the world’s glare, that 
we may see colors as they are, and know gold 
from pinchbeck. Why should I not go to prison, 
of my own accord, for such teaching, and othei 
reasons ? ” 


CECIL DREEME. 


207 


And other reasons ? Tell me, Dreeme, be- 
fore our friendship goes further, — before 1 
utterly and irrecoverably give you my confi- 
dence.” 

“ Go on.” 

“ No ! I cannot go on.” 

“ I understand, and am not insulted. You 
mean to ask whether I am hiding here because 
I have picked a pocket, or pillaged a till, or 
basely broken a heart, or perhaps because I 
have a blood-stain to wear out.” 

“ My imagination had not put its suspicion, 
if any existed, into any such crude charges.” 

‘‘ So I saw, and stated the question blankly. 
You could not connect me with vulgar or 
devilish crime. At the same time, you had a 
certain uneasiness about me, undefined and 
misty, but real. You will not deny it,” and 
he smiled as he spoke. 

“No. Since you affront the fact with such 
cheerful confidence, I will not deny the vague 
dread.” 

“ Be at rest, then ! There is not a man or 
a woman in the world, whom I cannot look in 
the eyes without bloncliing. You need not be 
ashamed of me. You may trust mo, without 
any fear of tliat harshest of all the shocks oui 
life can feel, loss of faith in a friend’s honor.” 

“ Well, we will never speak of this again 


208 


CECIL DREEME. 


I 


Live by your own laws, in the dark or ilie 
light ! I demand unquestioned freedom for my- 
self. I am the last man to refuse it to an- 
other.” 

“ Really,” said Dreeme, ‘‘ since your projec- 
tion into my orbit, I no longer need personal 
contact with the outer world.” 

“ You find me a good enough newsman.” 

The artistic temperament does not love to 
bustle about in the crowd, to shoulder and 
hustle for its facts. You give me the cream 
of what the world says and does. But, by and 
by, when you tire of the novelty of a tyro-artist’s 
society, you will drop me.” 

“ Never ! so long as you consent to be my 
in-door man. I often feel, now, as I stir about 
among men, collecting my budget of daily facts, 
that I only get them for the pleasure of hearing 
your remarks when I unpack in the evening.” 

“ I must try to be a wiser and wittier critic.” 

“ You return me far more than 1 bring. I 
train my mental muscle with other people. You 
give me lessons in the gymnastics of finer forces. 
My worldling nature shrivels, the immortal Mo 
expands under your artistic touch.” 

“ I am happy to be accused of such a power,” 
Dreeme said, witli his sweet, melancholy smile 
‘‘ It is the noblest one being can exercise ovei 
another, and needed much in this low world of 


ours. 


CviCIL DREEME. 


209 


Yes^ Dreeme, your fresh, brave, earnest 
character I begin to regard as my guardian 
influence. With you I escape from the mean 
ambitions, the disloyal rivalries, the mercenary 
friendships of men, — from the coarseness, base- 
ness, and foulness of the world. You neutral- 
ize to me all the evil powers.” 

. “ That Mr. Densdeth, of whom you have once 
or twice spoken, — is he one of them ? ” 

‘‘ Perhaps so.” 

Are you still intimate with him ? ” 

“ Intimate ? Hardly. Intimacy implies friend- 
ship.” 

‘‘ Familiar, then ? ” 

Familiar, yes. He seeks my society. We 
are thrown together by circumstances. He in- 
terests me greatly. I know no man of such wide 
scope of information, such knowledge, such wit, 
such brilliancy, — no one at all to compare with 
him, now that my friend Churm is absent.” 

“ Those two fraternize, I suppose.” 

“ Churm and Densdeth ? ” 

“ Yes ; you seem to make one a substitute for 
the other.” 

“ ‘ How happy could I be with either ! ’ 0 no ! 
You strangely misapprehend Mr. Churm. The 
two arc as much asunder in heart as in looks.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Drecme. 

‘‘ You seem incredulous. But let me tell you 

N 


210 


CECIL DREEME 


that Clmrm’s knowledge of Densdeth gives tlie 
same result as these clairvoyant intuitions of 
yours. I suppose I am a perverse fellow for not 
obeying everybody’s ‘ Focnum habet in cornu ’ of 
Densdeth ; but I have Cato’s feeling for the 
weaker side, or at least the side assailed. Be- 
sides, I have a scientific experiment with tliis 
terrible fellow. I let him bite, and clap on an 
antidote before the brain is benumbed. I jday 
with Densdeth, wlio really seems to me like an 
avatar of the wise Old Serpent himself, and then, 
before he has quite conquered me with his fasci- 
nation, I snatch myself away, and come to you, to 
be aroused and healed.” 

I am glad to bo an antidote to poison. But 
have you no fears of such baleful intercourse ? ” 

‘‘ None. As a man of the world, I must know 
the perilous as well as the safe among my race. 
IIow am 1 to become as wise as the serpent, un- 
less I study the serpent ? I find Densdeth a most 
valuable preceptor. He has sounded every man’s 
heart, in life or history, and can state the depth 
of evil there in fathoms, feet, and inches. I 
could no more do without him for that side of 
my education, than I could spare your dove-like 
teaching to make me harmless as a dove. Par 
don my giving you this unmasculine office.” 

“ You speak lightly, Mr. Byng. I fear yon 
are a man who has not yet fully made up hii 
•nind.” 


CECIL DREEME. 


211 


“ Wliat ? As to the great choice, — Hercules’s 
choice ? Virtue or Vice ? 0 yes, I am abso- 

lutely committed. Virtue has me fast. In fact, 
1 am deemed quite a Puritan, as men go ; 1 
should be so not to shame my ancestors.” 

Forgive me if I ask, I)o you know what 
Evil is ? ” 

“ I suppose so ; as much' as is to be known.” 

‘‘ 0, you cannot ! You would not trifle with 
it, if you dreamed how it soils. You would fly 
it.” 

‘‘ Not face it ? ” 

“ Never, unless duty commanded you to face 
and crush it. Those who know Evil best fly 
farthest, hide deepest, dread its approacli, shud- 
der at the thought of its pursuit. It is so terri- 
bly subtle. The bravest are not brave before it ; 
the strongest are not strong ; the purest are not 
pure. It makes cowards of the brave, it para- 
lyzes the strong, it taints the pure. No one is 
safe, — no one, until personal agony has made 
him hate Evil worse than death. Mr. Byng, ycu 
have a noble soul ; but no soul caji safely palter 
with a bad man. Palter ! I use strong words. 
I mean to use them. You have spoken lightly 
and pained me. To a bad man — to some bad 
men — every pure soul is a perpetual reproach, 
and must be sullied. You speak plainly of this 
I^eiisdetl) ; you understand his bad influence, and 


212 


CECIL DREKME. 


yet you deal with him as if he were some inert 
chemical combination, which you could safely 
handle and analyze. Siicli a being is never in- 
ert ; the less active he seems, the more he is 
likely to be insidiously at work to ruin. For- 
give me, my dear fi'iend, that I warn you so 
eagerly against this fatal curiosity ! ” 

He had spoken with fervid energy and elo- 
quence. Ill fact, there was in this strange 
young genius a passionate ardor, always latent, 
only waiting to flame forth, wlien liis heart was 
touched. And when some deeper interest stirred 
him, — wlieii he had some protest to utter against 
wrong, — his large, melanclioly eyes grew intense, 
his voice lost its pensive sadness ; color came to 
his thin, sallow cheeks. It was so now. For a 
moment, he was almost beautiful with this sud- 
den evanescent inspiration. 

I paused after his eager outburst, watching 
him with such admiration as we give to a great 
actor, and then — for I confess tliat my conceit 
was somewhat offended by this good advice, from 
one in years §o much my junior — I said, with a 
confident smile: “You talk like a Cassandra. 
What do you foresee so very terrible, as about to 
befall me ? Pray do not be uneasy ! I am an 
old stager. I have managed to make my way 
thus far in my life without being worse than my 
fellows. ‘ I am indifferent honest.’ I will try to 


CECIL DREEME. 


213 


remain so, despite of the seductions of Bugaboo. 
And then, you know, I cannot go far wrong with 
you for Mentor.’’ 

My tone seemed to pain him. He painted 
some moments in silence on his Lear. 

While he painted, I observed him, — interested 
much in the picture of his creation, more in the 
creator. “ Raphael- Angelico,” I thought, “ he 
merits the name fully. What a delicate being ! 
The finest organization I have ever seen in man. 
How strangely his personality affects me ! And 
every moment fancies drift across my mind that 
I actually know his secret, and am blind, pur- 
posely blind to my knowledge, because I prom- 
ised \iim when we first met that I would be so ” 


CHAPTER XYIII. 


ANOTHER CASSANDRA. 

Dreeme went on slowly and carefully with his 
work, after my closing remark of the last chapter. 
I continued to observe him for some moments in 
silence. His palette and brushes were kept with 
extreme neatness. The colors on the palette were 
arranged methodically, with an eye to artistic 
gradation ; so that the darker of the smooth, oily 
drops squeezed from his paint-tubes made, as it 
were, a horizon of shadow on the outer rim of 
the palette. Within this little amphitheatre of 
hillocks, black, indigo, and brown, the dashes of 
brighter hue were disposed in concentric arcs, 
shading toward pure white at tlie focus. All his 
utensils and materials betokened the same order- 
liness and refinement ; nothing was out of place, 
nothing daubed or soiled. So careful too was 
his handling, that he needed no over-sleeve to 
protect his own. The delicate hand and' the 
flexible wrist seemed incapable of an awkward 
or a blundering motion. He could no more do a 
slovenly thing, than ho could dance a break-down 


CECIL DREEME. 215 

or smoke a pipe. This personal neatness was 
specially beantifnl to me. In my laboratory, at 
my task of splitting atoms and nnbraiding gases, 
I learnt from the exquisite order and proportion 
that Nature never forgets in her combinations to 
require the same of men. I found it in Dreeme. 
His genius in art was not of the ill-regulated, 
splashy, blotchy, boisterous class. Nothing coarse 
could come from those fine fingers. 

You elaborate your work with great care,” 
said I, after some moments’ silence, while the 
painter had been touching in dots of light, and 
then pausing, studying, and touching again, here 
a point and there a line. 

1 must be careful and elaborate. It is partly 
the timidity of a novice. I feel that my hand 
lacks the precision of practice, — the rapid, un- 
erring touch of a master. But besides, now, as 
iny work approaches completion, I perceive a 
failure in creative power. I work feebly and 
painfully.” 

Creative power of course is temporarily ex- 
hausted by a complete consistent creation. Jove 
felt empty-headed enough wlien he had thought 
Minerva into being. Lie fallow for a season, and 
your lirain will teem again with images ! ” • 

‘‘ Yes, that is the law ; but you must remem- 
ber that my case is solitary. My picture is a 
spasm. It came to me prematurely, as a pur 


216 


CECIL DKEEME. 


pose and a power come in the paroxysms of a 
fever. . I have spent all my large force in it.” 

“ Your picture is older, subject and handling, 
than you, as I have said before. But music, 
painting, and poetry are gifts of the gods to the 
young.” 

Older than my years ? All yes ! ” he said, 
drearily. “ I was in the immortal misery when 
I poured out my soul there. It was sore, sore, 
sore work. I pray that I may never need to 
create tragedy again. I pray that no new or 
ancient experience may compel me to confess 
and confide it to the impersonal world. No, I 
have wreaked my anguish, my pity, my shame 
for the guilty, on that canvas, and the virtue is 
gone out of me.” 

Essay another vein ! You have worked off 
bitterness. Open your heart to sweetness I In 
brighter mood, you will do fairer things without 
the tragic element.” 

“ Since you and Locksley compelled me to 
accept the sweet gift of a life more hopeful, I 
have made some sketches in a less severe manner 
than my Lear. That was cruel tragedy. These 
are only anecdotes.” 

“ Pray exhibit ! ” 

‘‘To so gentle a critic, I venture. Do not 
expect ptssion, — that I wished to spare my- 
self. The sentiment is simple and commonplace 
enough.” 


217 


CECIL DKEEME. 

placed before me three sketchy pictures, 
able and rapid. 

“ You see,” said he, I play upon one idea or 
its reverse.” 

The first sketch depicted a young girl, cauglit 
in a snow-storm, and sunk, a mere shapeless 
(hing, among the drifts in a dreary pine-wood. 
A gentleman, in the costume of a Puritan soldier, 
stooped over her. Beside him stood a sturdy 
yeoman with a cloak and a basket. A few sun- 
beams cleft the pines, glinted on the hero’s cors- 
let, and warmed the group. It was a scene full 
of tiie pathos of doubtful hope. 

“ Thank you for my immortality,” said I, 
“ It was a pretty thought to put Locksley and 
myself in this scene of rescue, — me too in the 
steel and buff of that plucky old pioneer, the 
first Byng, with whose exploits I have bored you 
so often. I hope we were in time, before the 
maiden perished.” 

The sunbeam seems to promise that,” said 
lie smiling, and handed me the next. 

Second picture. Scene, the splendid salon of 
a French chateau. Through the window, a mad 
mob of sans culottes were visible, forcing the 
grand entrance. Within, myself — costume, pur- 
ple velvet, lace and rapier — and Locksley, in 
blouse and sni'cts, were bearing off a faulted 
lady^ dark-haired, and robed in yellow 

lU 


218 


CECIL DREFJIE. 

“ Twice immortal ! ” said I. But why avert 
tlie heroine’s face ? ” 

“ Good female models are hard to find. My 
heroine sliould be worthy of my hero. Have you 
one of your own, whose features I might insert ?” 

‘‘Have I found 1113" heroine ? Not yet, — that 
is, not certainly.” 

Dreeme handed me the third picture. “ IMj 
Incognita,” said he, “ is willing to cncountei 
bad compan}" out of gratitude to her benefactors. 
Please a[)preciate tlie comjdiment! ” 

Third })icture. Scene, tlie same splendid salon 
of the same chateau. AVithout, instead of tlie 
sans culottes^ a group of soldiers of the Republic 
stbod on guard. Within, the same dark-haired 
lady, — costume, yellow satin (it reminded me 
of that coverlet of Louis Philippe’s which had 
served Dreeme for wrajiper), — the same heroine 
as in the second picture, sat with her back to 
the spectator. At a table beside her Avas an 
official personage, signing a passport. He was 
dressed with careful coxcombry in Roliespierre’s 
favorite color, and resembled that demon slightly, 
but enough to recall him. Behind him, I — yes, 
I myself again — could be seen through a half- 
opened closet-door, sullenly sheathing my sword 
in obedience to a sign from the lad3^ Locksley 
also was there, in blouse and stealthy bare feet, 
playing prudence to valor and holding mo back. 


219 


CECIL DREEME. 

Ah i said I, “ another person with ns in the 
pillory of your picture. Strange ! Your Robe- 
spierre might almost be a portrait of Densdeth.” 

Indeed ! It is a typical bad face, and may 
resemble several bad men.” 

Singularly like Densdeth ! ” 1 repeated. 

“ The same cold-blooded resolve, the same latent 
sneer, the same suppressed triumph, even the 
coxcombry you have given to your gentle butcher 
of ’93, — all are Densdeth’s. May you not have 
seen and remembered his marked face ? ” 

‘‘ Possibly.” He evaded my inquiring look, as 
he replied. 

“ Perhaps he has stared at you for an instant 
in a crowd. Perhaps you have caught a look of 
his from the window of a railroad-car. He may 
at some moment, witliout your conscious notice, 
have stamped himself inelfaceably upon your 
mind.” 

It may be. An artist’s brain receives and 
stores images often without distinct volition. 
But you may lend my villain a likeness from 
your own memory.” 

‘‘ Yes ; our talk about Densdeth, and your 
warnings against an exaggerated danger are fresh 
in my mind. Certainly, as 1 see the face, it is 
Densdeth’s very self.” 

“ Now,” said Drceme, “ take your choice of my 
three sketches. Three simple stories, — which 


CECIL DREEME. 


2'2(j 

will you have ? I painted them for your selec- 
tion, and have taken much grateful pleasure in 
the work. One is for you, one for Locksley, one 
foi myself, — a souvenir for each of us in happier 
days.” 

“ Mine will be precious as a souvenir, apart 
from its great value as Art. And, let me tell 
you, Dreeme, in their manner, these studies are 
as able as your Lear. The anecdotes hold their 
own with the tragedy. I believe you are the man 
we have been waiting for.” 

“ Your praise thrills me.” 

Do not let it spoil you,” said I, willing in my 
turn to act the Mentor. 

“ Mr. Byng,” said he gravely, “ my life has 
been so deepened and solemnized by earnest 
trial and bitter experience, that vanity is, I trust, 
annihilated. I shall do my work faithfully, be^ 
cause my nature commands me to it ; but I can 
never have the exultant feeling of personal pride 
in it as mine.” 

That too is a legitimate joy. You will have 
it when the world gives you its verdict, ‘ Well 
done.’ ” 

Dreeme sighed, and seemed to shrink away. 

“ To face the world ! ” said he, — ‘‘ how dare I? 
And yet I must. My scanty means will not last 
me many weeks longer.” 

“ My dear Dreeme,” said I, my purse is not 


CECIL DKEEME. 


221 


insolent with fulness ; but it holds enough to 
keep two spiritual beings, like ourselves, in oys- 
ters and ale, slaw and ‘ Wing’s pethy,’ — crackers 
being thrown in.” 

“ Thank you,” said he, smiling ; “ but I sup- 
pose I must go out into daylight, brave my fate, 
and take my risk.” 

“ There is no risk. You must succeed.” 

“ Ah ! ” said he, and tears stood in his great 
sad eyes ; “ I speak of another risk. Of anotlier 
danger*, which I shudder at. Here I am safe, 
uiiharming and unharmed. How can I take up 
my life’s responsibilities again ? ” 

“ Dreeme,” said I, “ in any other but you, I 
should almost say that these fancies were un- 
manly.” 

He evaded my eye, as I said this, but did not 
seem insulted. 

‘‘ But,” 1 continued, “ there is a certain kiivd 
of courage in your working here alone, — enough 
to establish your character. If you want a rough 
pugilistic ally against this mysterious peril of 
yours, take me into your confidence. Here are 
my fists ! they are yours. What ogre shall I hit ? 
What dragon shall I choke ? ” 

“ You are neglecting my poor gift,” said he, 
resolutely changing the subject ; “ make your 
choice of the three pictures, and I will show you 
my portfolio of drawings. You shall sec what 


CECIL DREEMF. 


my fingers do when they obey tlie dictates of mj 
careless fancy.” 

I choose the third of the series. Neither 
of those where I or my semblance is the chief 
figure, — neither where I am doing, but where 
I am receiving the favor. My only regret is 
that I cannot look through the back of her head 
and see the features of the lady, whose gesture 
tells me, ‘ Sheathe sword and swallow ire ! ’ 
Robespierre — Dcnsdeth too, that adds to its 
value. I must hang it up where he can. see it. 
T am curious to know whether he will recog^ 
nize himself.” 

“ 0 no ! Promise me that you will not show 
it at present. No., not to any one ! ” 

What, not identify myself with the debut of 
the ‘coming man ? May I not be your herald ? ” 
“ Wait, at least, till I am ready to folic w up 
the announcement of my coming. No prema- 
ture paeans, if you please ! ” 

“ I obey, of course. But I should vastly like 
to show it to Towers, Sion, and Pensal. You 
know I have a growing intimacy with that trio 
of great artists. They would heartily welcome 
your advent.” 

‘‘ Spare me the dread of their condemnaticn ! 
Keep my little gift to yourself, at present ! 
Here is my heap of drawings. Look ul them 
and judge with youi’ usual kindness ! ” 


CECIL DREEME. 


223 


‘‘ So these were the thoughts too hot for your 
brain to hold. These represent what you must 
say, not what you chose to say. I perceive that 
the bent of your mind is not toward tragedy.” 

V ery masterly sketches they were ! A fine 
fancy, a subtle imagination, a large heart, had 
conceived them, an accurate and severe artistic 
sense had controlled and developed the thought, 
and an unerring hand had executed it. Dreeme 
was a youth, certainly not more than twenty- 
one ; and yet here was the maturity of complete 
manhood. Whether he had had opportunities 
for studying classic art, or whether his genius 
had seized in common life that fine quality 
which we name “ classic,” these drawings of his 
would have stood the test with the purest of 
the Italian masters, in the days before Italian 
art had suffered blight, — that blight which be- 
fell it when progress ceased in the land, and 
a tyrannical Church bade the nation pause and 
let the world go by. 

Dreeme’s female figures were not drawn with 
the liberal and almost riotous fancy of youth, 
which loves floating and flaunting draperies and 
a bold display of the nude. A chaster feeling 
had presided over the studies of this fine genius, 
riiere was a severe simplicity in his drawings 
of women. He seemed to have approached the 
purer sex with a loving reverence, never with 


224 


CECIL DREEME. 


that coarse freedom which debases the work of 
many able men, nullifying all spiritual beauty 
One would say that the 'artist of these draw- 
ings had taken his mother and his sisters as 
models for the elevated and saintly beings, whom 
he had placed in scenes of calm beauty, and 
engaged in tender offices of mercy, pity, and 
pardon. I could safely name him Raphael- Angeli- 
co, — the title saves me longer criticism. 

Strangely enough, — and here I recognized 
either a wound in Dreeme’s life or a want in 
his character, — there was not one scene of love 
— that is, the love Cupid manages — in the col- 
lection. Not one scene where lovers, happy or 
hapless, figured. No pretty picture of consent 
and fondness. Not one of passion and fervor. 

Now, a young man or a young maiden, in 
the early twenties, in whose mind love is not 
the primal thought, is a monstrosity, and must 
be studied and analyzed with a view to cure. 

Either Dreeme’s nature was still in the crude, 
green state, unripened by passion, or he had 
suffered so bitterly from some treachery in love 
that he could not reawaken the memory. Either 
he was ignorant of love’s sweet torture, or he 
had felt the agony, without the healing touch. 

I suspected the latter. 

Often, recently, as my relations with Dreeme 
grew closer, 1 had been conscious of a peculiar 


CECIL DREEME. 


225 


jealous curiosity. I was now his nearest friend. 
i>ut had he not had a nearer ? If not in my 
sex, in the other ? It was under the influence 
of this jealousy, that I said, — 

“ It seems almost an impertinence, Dreemo, 
to suggest a negative fault in this collection of 
admirable drawings ; but I perceive a want. The 
subject of love, — the love that presses hands 
and kisses lips, the tender passion, — had you 
nothing to say of it ? ” 

‘‘ No,” said he, I am too young.” 

“ Bah ! you are past twenty.” 

“ Twenty-one — the very day of your coming.” 

‘‘ Too young ! why, as for me, I was in love 
while my upper lip was only downy. The 
passion increased as that feature began to be 
districted off with hairs, stalwart, but sporadic. 
And ever since I have grown up to a real mous- 
tache, with ends that can be twirled, I have 
been in love, or just out and waiting to jump 
or tumble in again, the whole time.” 

‘‘ How is it now ? ” 

“ I hardly know. In love ? or almost in ? 
Which ? In, I believe. I am tempted to offer 
you a confidence.” 

“ I would rather not,” said Dreeme, uneasily. 

‘‘ 0 yes ; you shall interpret my feelings. 1 
admire a woman, whom it seems to me that I 
sJiouid love devotedly, if she were a little other 
10 ^ 


o 


226 


CECIL DREEME. 


than &lie is, — herself touched with a diviner 
delicacy, — her own sister self, a little angel- 
ized.” 

Dreeme evaded my questioning look, and made 
no reply. I paused a moment, Avhile he paint- 
ed a jewel, flashing on the white neck of his 
Goiieril. 

“ Come,” said I, my Mentor, do not dodge 
responsibility ! Your reply may affect my des- 
tiny.” 

He met my glance now, and replied, without 
hesitation, “ Love that admits questions is no 
love.” 

“ Perhaps I am suffering the penalty for the 
inconstant mood I have permitted myself here- 
tofore. Perhaps I only want a steady and sin- 
cere purpose to love and trust, and I shall do 
so.” 

“ Beware such perilous doubts ! ” said he ear- 
nestly. “ With a generous character like yours, 
they lead to illusions. You will presently, out 
of self-reproach for at all doubting the woman 
you fancy, pass into a blind confidence, and so 
win some miserable shock, perhaps too late.” 

‘‘ Cassandra again ! Cassandra in the other 
sex.” 

‘‘ Do not say Cassandra ! that proves you in- 
tend to disdain my warning.” 

“ Dear me I what solemn business we are mak 


1 

t 


227 


CECIL DREEME. 

ing of my little flirtation ! — a flirtation all on 
my side, by tlie way. In fact, I really believe 
[ have cleared my head of my vague doubts of 
the unknown lady in question. They only needed 
to be put into words, in presence of a third party, 
to seem, as you say, utterly ungenerous.” 

“ I am sorry that you forced the confidence 
upon me, — very sorry ! But you would have 
it so.” 

“ You talk as if you knew the lady, and con- 
sidered her unfitted for me.” 

Believe that I have discernment enouG:h, 
knowing you, to know the class of woman who 
in this phase of your life will necessarily attract 
you. I can divine whom, — that is, what manner 
of person you will choose for a love, since you 
have characterized the man you are fascinated 
by as an intimate.” 

‘‘ Oh ! you mean Densdeth.” 

‘‘ Yes ; Avhile you allow him to dominate you, — 
and mind, I take my impression from yourself, — ■ 
y^ou will naturally seek a counterpart of his in 
the other sex.” 

I grew ill at ease under this penetrating analy- 
sis of my secret feelings. 

It was, of course, of Emma Denman that J 
had spoken. 

Emma Denman was the woman I deemed my 
seif on the verge of loving. 


228 


CECIL DREEME 


It V7as she whom I felt that I did not love, and 
vet ouo’ht to love. It was she whom I should 

*■ O 

have loved, without any shadow of hesitation, 
if she had. been herself touched with a diviner 
feminineness, her own sister self, a thought more 
angelic. 

I had sometimes had a painful lurking con- 
sciousness that if I were nobler tban I was, — if 
my mind were more resolutely made up and 
unwavering on the side of virtue, — I should 
liave applied the test of a higher and purer 
nature on my side to Emma Denman, and found 
lier in some way fatally wanting. But whenever 
this injurious fancy stirred within me, I quelled 
it, saying, “ If I were nobler, I should not liave 
morbid notions about others. How can you 
learn to trust women while you allow yourself 
daily to listen, and only carelessly to protest, 
when Densdeth urges his doctrine, that women 
and men only wait opportunity to be base ? ” 

In fact, in violation of an instinct, I was go- 
ing through tlie process of resolving to love Em- 
ma Denman, because I distrusted her, and such 
vague distrust seemed an unchivalric disloyalty, 
a cruel wrong to a friend. 

The strange coincidence of Dreeme’s warning 
determined me to banish my superstitions. No 
more of this weakness ! I would cultivate, or, as 
I persuaded myself, frankly yield to my passion 


229 


CECIL DREEME. 

for my childish flame, love her, and do my best 
to win her. I saw now how baseless were my 
doubts, when they came to be stated in words. 
Indeed, there was no name for one of ihese misty 
beings of the mind. 

All this flashed across my mind as I continued 
mechanically turning over Dreeme’s drawings. 
With the thought came the resolve. I would no 
more begrudge my faith. I would love Emma 
Denman, and by love make myself worthy of it. 

“ The fleeting purpose never is o’ertook 
Unless the deed go with it,” 

I half murmured to myself, and so, taking my 
leave of Drecme for the morning, I passed to 
Denman’s house. 

From that time, I was the undeclared lover of 
Emma Denman, as I shall presently describe. 

And you, Cecil' Dreeme, — it was your warn- 
ing that urged me so perversely to do violence 
to an unerring instinct. 

How strangely and fatally we interfere, uncon- 
sciously, for one another’s bliss or bale ! 

Churm away ; 

Densdeth my intimate ; 

Cecil Dreeme my friend of friends ; 

Emma Denman almost my love. 

So matters stood with me and the other char- 
acters of this drama, two months from the dav 
of my instalment in Chrysalis. 


230 


CECIL DREEME. 


But let it not be understood tliat I had nothing 
to do except to study these few persons. My 
days were full, and often my nights, with hard 
and absorbing work I had undertaken in my 
profession. I touched the world on many sides. 
I came into collision with various characters. 
I had my daily life, like other men, — my real 
life, if you will, that handled substances, and did 
not deal in mysteries. This I am not describing. 
I am at pains to eliminate every fact and thought 
of mine which did not bear immediately upon 
the development of the story I here compel my- 
self to wiite. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


CAN THIS BE LOVE ? 

Meantibie my intimacy with the Denmans had 
been growing closer. 

With me Mr. Denman laid aside his usual 
manner, a mixture of reserve and uneasiness. 
He forgot his preoccupations, and talked with 
me frankly. 

‘‘ If I had had a son, Byng,’^ said he, ‘‘ I could 
have wished him a young man like yourself. I 
suppose you will not quarrel with me if I expend 
a little fatherliness on you.” 

I was touched by this kindness. My distrust 
of him wore away. It is my nature to think 
gently and tenderly of others. I was in those 
relations with Mr. Denman where one sees the 
better side of character. I shared his liberal 
hospitality. I perceived that he did not love 
wealth for itself, but as power ; and that he used 
tliis power often judiciously, always generously. 
The vanity of exercising power, the mistake of 
fancying himself a being of higher order than 
men of lesser influence, he seemed to have out 


232 


CECIL DREEME. 


grown. And the power, with its duties attache i, 
he often found a weary burden. I saw him 
a tired and saddened man, thankful for the fresh- 
ening friendship of his junior. I gave him mine 
frankly. 

Could such a man be called, as Churm had 
harshly called him, the murderer of his daugh- 
ter ? Surely not ! I might believe him to have 
erred in that business; I could not deem him 
criminal. And, justifying him, I even did injus- 
tice to the memory of the dead Clara. Who 
know what undiscovered or unpublished sorrow- 
ful motive she might not have had for a suicide ? 
The dead have no friends to justify them. 

But there was another reason for my favorable 
judgment on Mr. Denman. I loved, or thought 
I loved, or wished that I loved, his daughter. 

Ever since my conversation with Cecil Dreeme, 
[ had encouraged this passion. I had seen Emma 
Denman frequently, then constantly ; it was now 
every day. 

Her fascination grew in power. There was a 
certain effort in it ; but what man disputes a 
woman’s right to make effort to please him ? 
With me her manner was anxious-, and even agi- 
tated. Other men, now that the blackness of 
first mourning was past, began to be at the house. 
Them she treated with civil indifference, or indif- 
ferent cordiality, as they merited. With me she 


233 


o’ECIL DREEMK. 

Feemed alwa/s eagerly striving that I should not 
misapprehend her, always protesting against some 
possibility of a false impression. 

Ah ! now that I look back upon it all, how I 
pity her ! No wonder that she grew thin and 
worn ! No wonder that her gayety often struck 
7ue as forced or fantastic ! When it did so 
seem, I said to myself tliat she was determined 
not to be cruslied by that sad tragedy of her 
sister’s death. 1 did not dream that iier eager 
moods were tokens of the desperate struggle 
she was making against the inevitable tragedy 
of her own life. 

Shall I go tlirougli all the history of the pro- 
gress of my passion ? Sliall I say how, day by 
day, my sympathy for this motherless, sisterless 
girl deepened, — how I sorrowed for her that, 
amid all the splendor of her life, her heart was 
sad and empty, and so the life a vain show ? 
how I, dreading what might be the fate of her 
•fatlior’s wealth, pleased myself with the tliought 
that; if disaster befell him, I could offer her the 
home and the heart of a hopeful working-man ? 
Shall I re-edit such an old, old story, with the new 
illustrations drawn from my own experience ? 

I shrink from the task of opening an ancient 
wound. 

I shrink, but yet I force myself to the anguish. 

And time has changed that bygone grief iiit3 a 


2U 


CECIL DREEME. 


lesson. I must write. No matter how dark, the 
story shall be told. Every man’s precious or 
costly experience belongs to every brother-man. 
No man may be a miser of the sorrows by which 
he has bought the power to be strong, to be 
tender, to pardon the weak and the guilty. Per- 
haps by some warning I here utter I may per- 
suade a young and hesitating soul to shudder 
back from the brink of sin. Often a timely trifle 
of a gentle word of admonition has struck a foully 
fair temptation dead. I know how the recurring 
fragrance of a flower that childhood loved, how 
the far-away sound of breakers on a beach where 
childhood wandered, how a weft of cloud, how 
the leap of a sunbeam, how the sudden jubilant 
carol of a bird, how a portrait of the pure Ma- 
donna on the wall, how a chance line on an open 
page, — how any such momentous trifle will save 
a wavering soul from a treachery or a crime, — 
will interpose an instant’s check, and rescue the 
life from a remorse, guarding it for a repent-* 
ance. Yes ; whatever agony it costs me to revive 
tliis old history, I do now, after its lesson is fully 
thought out, of my sober judgment, revive it, — 
let who will murmur, “ Bad taste ! ” let who will 
cry out, Unhealthy ! ” let who will sigh, “ Alas ! 
have we not our own griefs ? why burden us 
with yours ? ” 

Did I, or not, love Emma Denman ? Whj 


CECIL DREEME. 235 

could I not determine this question ? I had 
my friends among men. Closest among these 
was Cecil Dreeme ; his friendship I deemed 
more precious than the love of women. l>ut 
among women, no other, none, was at all so 
charming to me as Emma. 

She was to me far more beautiful than any 
beauty, — infinitely more beautiful, always, than 
any of those round, full, red beauties who are 
steadily supplied to the city market, overt or 
covert, for wives or mistresses to the men who 
pay money for eitlier, and have nothing but 
money to give. 

She was brilliant, frivolously brilliant per- 
haps ; but we pardon a dash of frivolity in a 
young woman of fashion, all her life flattered 
and caressed, and untrained by daily contact 
with men of strong minds and women of strong 
hearts. 

Emma Denman stood just on the hither brink 
of genius. It seemed that, if some magnificent 
emotion, some heart-opening joy or grief, could 
befall her, she would suddenly be promoted to 
become herself, and that self a genius. If she 
could be once in earnest, she would be a noble 
woman. Such a character has a mighty charm 
to a lover. He stirs himself with the thought 
that his love may give the awakening touch ; 
that his passion may supply the ripening flame,, 
and win the bud to bloom. 


236 


CECIL DREEME. 


Ill music, in art, in tliouglit, I felt tl * 
Emma Denman needed but one step to stand 
on the lieights among the inspired. She seemed 
to feel this also, and to be always pleading tacitly 
with me to give her the slight aid she needed. 
She could not pass into the realms of the di- 
vine liberty of genius, for some gossamer wall, 
invisible to all but her, and against her st: ong 
as adamant. 

I was terrified sometimes by her keenness of 
insight into bad motives, her comprehension of 
the labyrinthine causes of bad acts. It is a per- 
ilous knowledge. We must pay price for power. 
How had she bought this unerring perception 
of the laws of evil ? How came she by this 
aged possession in her first youth ? 

How ? I quelled my uneasiness with the 
thought that the sensitive touch of innocence 
is warned away from poisoned blossoms by the 
clammy airs that hang about them, and so re- 
coils, a"„d will not pluck the flower or gather 
the fruit. I said that the mere dread of evil 
will instruct a virgin soul where are those patlis 
of evil it must shun. I said it is better to know 
sin and shun it, than to half ignore and half 
evade. 

Since our first interview, our relations had 
grown more and more intimate without check. 
We named tlieni brotherly and sisterly, as the} 


CECIL DREEME. 


237 


had been in. oar cliildish days. She claimed 
the sister’s prinlege of presiding over my social 
life, and aiding me to make a choice in love. 

Miss Denman led me about tlio grand round 
of society. She took me to see the belles for 
beauty, the belles for money, the belles for wit, 
the belles for magnetism, the belles for blood. 
And all of them she drew out to show their most 
attractive side, in fact, their better and more 
genuine nature. She persuaded each to reveal 
that the belle had not addled the woman. 

And then she wondered that she could not 
persuade me to fall in love with one of these 
ladies. 

I could not, of course, if only because her 
process made her appear superior to them all. 
I admired the kindliness with whicli she strove 
to put sparkle into the stupid girls, to dignify 
the trifling, to refine the vulgar, — and tlie 
teacher was to me an infinitely finer being than 
her scholars ever could become. 

And so I told her, — but never yet with the 
words of a lover. 

And so she insisted I should not tljink, — not 
craftily and with systematic coquetry. No, poor 
child ! All, no ! I acquit her of all such slight 
wiles and surface hypocrisy. But how could I 
know tliat she was sincerely striving to save 113 
l>oth from the tragedy of a mutual love ? 


238 


CECIL DREEME. 


And did I love her ? The question implied a 
doubt, where there should be only undoubting , 
conviction and compelling impulse. 

Why doubt, Robert Byng ? 

There was surely no other affection in m^ 
heart that I was playing hilse. Surely none. 
My heart was free from any love of woman. 

And my doubt was based upon a suspicion. 

A suspicion ! of what ? 

If I at all stated to myself, however faintly^ 
what, it seemed to me such disloyalty that I de- 
spised myself for entertaining the unwholesome 
thought. 

“ You are not fit,” I said, “ for the society of a 
pure woman ! Densdeth has spoilt you.” 

Thus I trained my affection the more tenderly 
for its weakness. Thus, ignorant and rejecting 
the sure law of nature, I strove to create the 
uncreatable, to construct what should have come 
into being and grown strong without interference, 
even without consciousness of mine. Tims I 
began to deem the sentiment I was manufactur- 
ing out of ruth and a loyal intention, as genu 
ine, heart-felt love. 

Bitter error ! And to be punished bitterly ! 


CHAPTER XX. 


A NOCTURNE. 

Night ! Night in the great city 1 

Night ! #hen the sun, the eye of God, leaves 
men to their own devices ; when the moon is so 
faint, and the stars so far away in the infinite, 
that their inspection and record are forgotten ; 
when Light, the lawgiver and orderer of human 
life, withdraws, and mankind are free to break or 
obey the commands daylight has taught them. 

Night ! when the gas-lights, relit, reawaken 
harmful purposes, that had slept through all the 
hours of honest sunshine in their lairs ; when 
the tigers and tigresses take their stand wdiere 
tlieir prey will be sure to come ; when the rustic 
in the peaceful country, with leaves whispering 
and crickets singing around him, sees a glow on 
the distant liorizon, and wonders if the bad city 
beneath it be indeed abandoned of Its godly men, 
and burning for its crimes. Night ! the day of 
the base, the guilty, and the desolate ! 

Every evening, wdien it was possible, of that 
late wunter and wintry spring, I abandoned club. 


CECIL DREEME. 


UO 

parlor, and ball room, and all the attractions of 
the brilliant world, to wander with Cecil Dreeme 
about the gas-lit city, and study the side it showed 
to night. And vet the phenomena of vice and 
crime, my companion refused to consider lit ob- 
jects of curiosity. Vice and crime were tacitly 
avoided by us. Dreeme’s nature repelled even 
the thought of them. 1 was happy to know one 
solitary man whose mind the consciousness of 
evil could not make less virgin. 

It chanced one evening, a fortnight after our 
conversation when Dreeme gave me the picture, 
that walking as usual, and quite late, we passed 
the Opera-House. Some star people were giving 
an extra performance on an off night. The last 
act of an heroic opera was just beginning. Dreeme 
hummed the final air, — a noble burst of triumph 
over a victory bought by a martyrdom. 

“ Your song makes me hungry to hear more,” 
said I. 

“ I have been almost starving for music,” he 
rejoined. 

‘‘ Come in, then. You can take your stand in 
the lobby, with your mysterious cloak about you, 
and slouched hat over your eyes. I defy your 
best friend or worst foe to know you.” 

“ No, no ! ” said he, nervously ; “ in the glare 
of a theatre I should excite suspicion. I should 
be seen.” 


CECIL DREEME. 


241 




‘ And pounced upon and hurried ofif to du- 
rance vile ? ” said I, lightly enough ; for I began 
. at last to fancy that his panic of concealment was 
tlie sole disorder of a singularly healthy brain. 
“ Well, I will not urge it. I cannot spare you 
1 am selfish. I should soon go to the bad with 
out my friend and Mentor.” 

It is strange,” said Dreeme, bitterly, that 
I, with a soul white as daylight, should be com- 
pelled to lurk about like a guilty thing, — to be 
as one dead and buried.” 

“ I thank the mystery that secludes you for 
my benefit, Dreeme,” I said. “ I dread the time 
when you will find a thousand friends, and many 
closer than I.” 

He dropped his cloak and took my arm. It 
was the first time he had given me this slight 
token of intimacy. We had been very distant in 
our personal intercourse. I am not a man to 
slap another on the back, shake him by the shoul- 
der, punch him in the ribs, or indulge in any rude 
])lay or coarse liberties. Yet there is a certain 
familiarity among men, by which we, after our 
roughish and unbeautiful fashion, mean as much 
tenderness for our friends as women do by their 
sweet embraces and caresses. Nothing of this 
kind had ever passed between Dreeme and me. 
His reserve and self-dependence had made me 
feel that it would be an impertinence to olfer 
11 


p 


242 


CECIL DREEME. 


even tha^^ kind of bodily protection which a big 
ger man holds ready for a lesser and slighter. 

It surprised me, then, a little, when DreemOj 
for the first time, took my arm familiarly. 

You have been a kind friend to me, Mr. 
Byiig,” said he ; “ there are not many men in 
the world who would have treated my retirement 
with such delicate forbearance and good faith.” 

“ Do not give me too much credit. I have 
been a selfish friend. I know that I am a facile 
person, something of the chameleon ; I need the 
fairer colors in contact with me to keep me from 
becoming an ugly brown reptile. Having this 
adaptability of character, I have had very close 
relations with many of the best and noblest ; but 
of all the men I have ever known, your society 
charms me most penetratingly. All the poetry 
ill my nature being latent, I need precisely you 
to bring it to the surface. The feminine element 
is largely developed in you, as a poetic artist. It 
precisely supplies the want which a sisterless and 
motherless man, like myself, has always felt. 
Your influence over me is inexpressibly bland 
and soothing. You certainly are my good spirit. 
I like you so much, that I have been quite con- 
tent with your isolation ; I get you all to myself. 
These walks with you, since that famous oyster 
supper, the very day of my return home, have 
been the chief feature of my life. I count 1115 


CECIL DREEME. 


243 


flour with you as the pay for my scuffle with the 
world. A tliird party would spoil the whole ! 
Wliat would become of our confidence, our inti- 
mate exchange of thought on every possible sub 
ject, if there were another fellow by, who might 
be a vulgarian or a muff? What could we do 
with a chap to whom we should have to explain 
our metaphysics, give page and line for our quo- 
tations, interpret our puns, translate our allu- 
sions, analyze our intuitions, define our God ? 
Such a companion would take the sparkle and 
the flash of this rapid and unerring sympathy out 
of our lives. No, Dreeme, this isolation of yours 
suits me ; and since you continue to tolerate my 
society, I must suit you. We form a capital 
exclusive pair, close as any of the historic ones, 
— Orestes and Pylades, for example, — to close 
my long discourse classically.’’ 

Do not compare us to those ill-omened two. 
Orestes was ordained to slay his parent for her 
sin,” my friend rejoined, in an uneasy tone. 

“ It was a judicial murder, — the guiltless exe- 
cution of a decree of fate. And all turned out 
happily at last, you remember. Orestes became 
king of Argos, and gave his sister in marriage to 
his Pylades, the faithful. Who knows but Avhen 
your tragic duty is over, whatever it be, and you 
liave brought the guilty to justice, you will re^ 
6ume your proper crown, and find a sister for 


CECIL DREEME. 


Ml 


me, your Pylades, the faithful ? If my preseiil 
tlame should not smile, that would be admirable. 
Your sister for me would make our brotherhood 
actual.” 

“ My sister for you ! ” said Dreeme, with an 
accent almost of horror ; and I could feel, by his 
arm in mine, that a strong shudder ran through 
him. 

We had by this time passed from the side-front 
of the Opera-House, where this conversation began, 
had walked along Quatorze Street, and turned 
up into the Avenue. Quatorze Street, as only a 
total stranger need be informed, is named in tri- 
umpliant remembrance of the minikin monarch 
whom we defeated in the old French war. The 
crossing of Quatorze Street and the Avenue was, 
at that time, the very focus of fashion. Within 
half a mile of that corner. Everybody lived — 
Everybody who was not Nobody. 

It was mid-March. Lent was in full sigh. 
Balls were over until Easter. Fasting people 
cannot take violent exercise. One can dance on 
full, but not on meagre diet, — on turkey, not on 
fish. But in default of balls, Mrs. Bilkes, still a 
leader of fashion, had her Lent evenings. They 
were The Thing, so Everybody agreed, and this 
evening was one of them. I had deserted for my 
walk with Dreeme. 

Mrs. Bilkes’s house was just far enough abo’^e 


CECIL DREEME. 245 

Quatorze Street, on the Avenue, to be in the 
van of tlic upward march of fashion. Files of 
carriages announced that all the world was with 
her - that evening. The usual band discoursed 
the usual music within ; but wanting the ca- 
dence of dancers’ feet to enliven them, those 
Lenten strains came dolefully forth. 

We were passing this mansion when Dreeme 
had last spoken. Before I had time to ask him 
wli-at meant his agitation at the thought of me 
for possible brother-in-law, the factotum of the 
Biikes party, the well-known professional, hailed 
me from the steps, where he stood in author- 
ity ; for by the bright light from the house he 
could easily recognize me. 

‘‘ Wliat, Mr. Byng ! You wont drop in upon 
us ? They ’re packed close as coffins inside, but 
there ’s always room for another like yourself. 
Better come in, — Mrs. Biikes will take on tre- 
mendous if she finds I let you go by without 
stopping.” 

I paused a moment, half disgusted, half amused 
by the privileged man’s speech. As I did so, a 
gentleman coming down the steps addressed mo. 
And it is such trivial pauses as tiiesc that bid us 
halt till Destiny overtakes our unconscious steps. 

I turned with a slight start, for I had not ob- 
served tlie new-comer as an acquaintance until 
he was at my side. 


246 


CECIL DPvEEME. 

It was Deiisdeth. 

He looked, with his keen, hasty glance, at my 
companion. He seemed to recognize him as a 
stranger. He did not bow, but turned to- me, 
and said, — 

“ What, Byng ! Are you not going in ? It is 
very brilliant. All the fair penitents are tliere, 
keeping Lent, in their usual severe simplicity of 
penitential garb. I asked Matilda Mildood if I 
should give her a bit of partridge and some 
chicken-salad. ‘ I ’m quite ashamed of you, ^Ir. 
Densdeth,’ says Matilda, with the air of one 
resolutely mortifying the flesh ; ‘ don’t you re- 
member it’s Lent. Oysters and lobster-salad, if 
you please, and a little terrapin, if there is any.’ ” 

While Densdeth made this talk, he glanced 
again at my companion. Dreeme liad witli- 
drawn his arm, and stood a little apart, half 
turned away from us, avoiding notice, as usual. 

‘‘ Don’t throw away your cigar, Byng,” con- 
tinued Densdeth, taking out his case, and step- 
ping toward the lamp-post, to make, as it seemed 
to me, a very elaborate selection. “ Give me 
a light first. Will you try one of mine ? ” 

“ No, Blank you. I have had my allowance.” 

Densdeth took my cigar to light his. The 
slight glow was sufficient to illuminate his face 
darkly. Its expression seemed to me singularly 
ftruel and relentless. It was withal scorn lul 


CLCIL DRKEME. 


247 


and triumphant. Something evidently had hap- 
pened which gave Densdeth satisfacton. Whom 
had he vanquished to-night ? 

The cigar would not draw. 

“ Bah ! ” said Densdeth, tearing it in two, 
with his white-gloved hands, with a manner 
of dainty torture, as if he were inflicting an 
indignity upon a foe. Bah ! ” said he, taking 
out another cigar, with even more elaborate 
^ selection, and as he did so glancing, quick and 
sharp, at my friend, who had retreated from 
the lamp. “ I don’t allow cigars, any more than 
other creatures, to bafile me. Excuse me, Byng, 
for detaining you. The second trial must suc- 
ceed ; if not. I’ll try a third time , — that always 
wins. Thanks ! ” 

lie lighted his cigar. Again by the glow I 
observed the same relentless, triumphant look. 

Densdeth turned down the Avenue. I re- 
joined Dreeme. lie took my arm again and 
clung to it almost weakly. 

What is the matter, Dreeme ? ” I asked, my 
tenderness for him all awake. 

No answer, but a nervous pressure on my arm. 

“ You are tired. Shall we turn back ? ” 

“ Not the way that man has gone, ” said he. 

“ Why not ? What do you fear? ” 

“I heard him name himself Densdeth. I 
saw his face — that cruel face of his. Mi*. Byng, 


248 


CECIL DREEME. 


' — my dear friend, Robert Byng, — that man is 
evil to the core. You call me your Mentor, 
your good influence ; take my warning ! Obey 
me, and shun him, as you would a fiend. You 
say that I have a fresh nature ; believe that my 
instinct of aversion for a villain is unerring. ” 

Is not this prejudice ? ” said I, somewhat 
moved by his panic, but still fancying so much 
alarm idle. 

‘‘ It might before have been prejudice, de- 
rived from your own account of him ; but now 
I have seen him, face to face.” 

“ A glance merely, and in a dusky light.” 
Yes, but one look at that face of his sears 
it into the heart.” 

“ You seem to have been as inquisitive about 
him as he about you. He studied your back 
pretty thoroughly. In fact, I believe it was to 
observe you that he made such parade of break- 
ing up his delinquent cigar. He evidently meant 
to know for what comrade I was abandoning 
the charms of the Bilkes soiree.^^ 

“ I shudder at the thought of such a man’s 
observation. What ugly fate brought me here ? ” 

Dreeme turned, and looked back. 

I involuntarily did the same. 

The Avenue, at that late hour, was nearly 
deserted of promen aders. As far away as two 
blocks behind us, I noticed the spark of a cigar, 


CECIL DREEME. 


249 


and as the smoker passed a gas-light, I could 
see him take the cigar from his lips with a 
white-gloved hand. He even seemed to bran- 
dish it triumpliantly. 

‘‘ He is following us ! ” cried Dreeme. 

The painter whirled me about a corner, and 
dragged me, almost at a run, along several 
humbler streets. At last we turned into one 
of the avenues by the North River, far away 
from the beat of any guest of Mrs. Bilkes. 

There Dreeme paused, and spoke. 

Good exorcise I have given you by my 
panic,” said he, with a forced laugh. “ How 
absurd I have been ! Pardon me ! You are 
aware how nervous I get, being so much shut 
up alone. And then, you know, I was only 
Imrrying you away from your devil.” 

“ Strange fellow you are, Dreeme ! I sup- 
pose this very strangeness is one element of 
your control over me. You excite my curi- 
osity in degree, though not in kind, quite as 
much as Densdeth does. And now that you 
and he are brought together, I hope these two 
mysterious personages will explain each other 
by some flash of hostile electricity. I wait for 
light from the meeting of the thunder-clouds.” 

‘‘ It must be very late,” said Dreeme in a 
weary tone. “What a dismal part of the city! 
This squalor sickens me. These rows of grog' 


250 


CECIL DEEEME. 


shops infect me with utter hopelessne^'S. Sin — 
sin everywhere, and tlie sorrow that never can 
be divorced from sin ! How can we escape ? 
IIow can we save others ? These nocturnal 
wanderings of ours have told me of a bread tli 
and a depth of misery that years of a charitable 
lifetime would never have revealed. If I ever 
have opportunities for 'action and inhuence, I 
shall know my duty, and how to do it. I see, 
Mr. Byng, as I have before told you, that you 
do not thoroughly share my sympathy for pov- 
erty and suffering and crime.” 

“ Perhaps not fully. My heart is not so tender 
as yours. I cannot seem to make other people’s 
distress my personal business, as you do. I en- 
dure the misfortunes of strangers with reasonable 
pliilosophy. Suffering, like pain, I suppose is to 
be borne heroically, until it passes off. Every 
man lias his hard times.” 

“ You are not cruel,” said Dreeme, “ but you 
talk cruelly on a subject you hardly understand. 
Wait until the hours of your own bitterness come, 
and you will learn the precious lesson of sym- 
pathy ! You will soften to others, and most to 
those who suffer for no fault of theirs, — the 
wronged, driven to despair by wrong-doing in 
those they love,- — the erring, visited with what 
we name ruin, for some miserable mistake of 
inexperience. But let us hasten home ! I have 


CECIL DREEME. 


2r4. 


never felt so sick at heart, so doubtful of the 
future, so oppressed by the ‘ weary weight of all 
this unintelligible world,’ as I do at this mo- 
ment.” 

“ Dreeme, are you never to take your future 
into your own hands, and live a healthy, natural 
life, like other men ? Think of yourself ! Do 
no^ be so wretched with other people’s faults ! 
You cannot annihilate the troubles that have 
made you unhappy ; but do not brood over them. 
Be young, and live young, in sunshine and 
gayety.” 

Be young ! ” said he, more drearily than 
ever. 

‘‘ Yes ; make me your confidant ! Face down 
your difficulties ! If you do not trust my experi- 
ence, and think me too recent in the country 'to 
give you practical help, there is my friend, Mr. 
Churm. He will be here to-morrow from a 
journey. Churm is true as steel. Trust him ! 
He and I will pull you through.” 

I trust no one but you. Do not press me 
yet. I am generally contented, as you know, 
with my art and your society. Only to-night me 
sight of that bad man has discomposed me.” 

“ Discomposed is a mild term,” said I, as I 
unlocked the outer door of Chrysalis. 

“ Well, I am composed now. But I wish,” 
said he in a trepidating way, that belied his 


252 


CECIL REEME. 


words, “ that you would see me safe to my 
door.’’ 

I did so, and we parted, closer friends than, 
ever. 

Densdeth, Cecil Droeme, Emma Denman, 
— these three figures battled strangely in my 
di'eams. 


CHAPTER XXI. 


LYDIAN MEASURES. 

jL DINED en famille at Mr. Denman’s the day 
after that panic-struck night walk with Cecil 
Dreeme. 

“ You are looking pale and thin, Emma,” said 
^Ir. Denman, as his daughter rose to leave us to 
our claret. “ You need more variety in your 
life. Why not let Byng take you to the opera 
to-night ? Our box has stood vacant, now, these 
manv weeks.” 

“ Yes,” said I, it is the new opera to-night.” 

Emma glanced at her black dress. 

Go ! ” said Denman, with something of harsh- 
ness in his tone, “ that need not cloud your life 
forever.” 

“ Do go,” said I. 

“ I will,” she said, witli a slight effort. ‘‘ But 
r shrink from appearing in public again.” 

It is time you should get over that feeling. 
We shall soon be receiving company again,” said 
lier father. ‘‘ So be ready when Byng and 1 har^ 
had our cigars.” 


254 


CECIL DREEME 


Slie was ready, and we drove to the Opera- 
House together. 

Her mourning was exquisitely becoming to her 
slight, graceful, refined figure. The startled and 
almost timorous manner I had noticed in our 
first interview had lately grown more marked. 
This shy, feminine trait excited instant sympa- 
th}^ It recalled how her life had been shocked 
by the sudden news of a tragedy. She seemed 
to have learned to tremble, lest she miglit en- 
counter at anv moment some new disaster sad- 
•/ 

der than the first. This was probably mere 
nervousness after her long grief, so I thought. 
Yet sometimes, when I spoke to her with any 
suddenness, she would start and shrink, and turn 
from me ; then, exercising a strong control over 
herself, she would return, smile away the fleeting 
shiver, and be again as self-possessed and gay as 
ever. 

As we entered the Opera-House and took our 
places in Mr. Denman’s conspicuous box, the 
glare of the lights and the eyes of a great audi- 
ence making a focus upon her affected Emma 
with the panic I have described. Slie turned to 
me with the gesture of one asking protection, 
almost humbly. 

T must go,” she said ; “ I cannot bear to have 
all the w^orld staring at me in this blank, hard, 
cruel way. They hurt me, — these people, pry 
'ng into my heart to find the sorrow there.” 


CECIL DREEME. 


255 


^‘Iii a moment it will be an old story,” said I. 

Do not think of going, dear Emma. The 
change and the excitement of the music will do 
you good. This nervousness of a debutante will 
pass away presently.” 

Dear Emma ! The first time that any such 
tender familiarity had passed my lips. And my 
manner, too, I perceived, expressed a new and 
deeper solicitude. I perceived this ; so did my 
companion. 

She looked at me, with a strange, fixed expres- 
sion, as if slie were resisting some potent impulse. 
Then a hot blush came into her cheeks. She 
sank into her seat, and fanned herself rapidly. 
Her brilliant color remained. 

“ Emma,” said I, bending toward her, “ what 
splendid change has befallen you ? You are at 
this moment beautiful beyond any possible dream 
of mine.” 

“ Do not speak to me,” she said ; “ I shall 
burst into tears before all these people. This 
crowd, after my seclusion, confuses and frightens 
me. Let me be quiet a moment ! ” 

All the world, of course, was immediately 
aware of the reappearance of the beautiful Miss 
Denman. There was much curiosity, and some 
genuine sympathy. “ Nods and becks and 
wreathed smiles ” came to hei from the boxes on 
every side. Her entree was a triumph — as such 
trium])hs go. 


256 


CECIL DREEME. 


To avoid this inspection, she took her lorgnette 
and glanced about the house. I followed itii 
direction. 

I saw her pause a moment on the group of men 
in the lobby. At the same time we both recog- 
nized Densdeth, regarding us. 

He was laughing with Raleigh and others. I 
seemed almost to hear the sharp tone of that 
cynical, faithless laugh of his. 

All the color faded out of Emma Denman’s 
face. She sank back, almost cowering. Cower- 
ing, — tlie expression does not exaggerate the 
effect of her gesture. She cowered into the 
corner of the box, and hid her face behind her 
fan. 

I should have spoken to demand the reason of 
her strange distress, when the leader of the or- 
chestra rapped ; there was a hush, and the new 
overture began with a barbaric blare of trumpets. 

So the opera went on, to the great satisfaction 
of all dilettanteism. 

It was thoroughly debilitating, effeminate mu- 
sic. No single strain of manly vigor rose, from 
end to end of the drama. Never would any 
noble sentiment thrill along the fibres of the soul 
in response to those Lydian measures. It was 
music to steep tlie being in soft, luxurious lan- 
guors; to make all effort seem folly, all ardor 
madness, all steady toil impossible ; — music to lap 


CECIL DREEME 


257 


the mind in somnolence, in a careless consent to 
whatever was, were it but bodily ease and moral 
stagnancy. 

There was no epic dignity, no tragic elevation, 
no lyrical fervor, in the new opera. Passion it 
had ; but it was a dreamy passionateness, not the 
passion that wakes action, nervous and intent. 
Even its wild strains, that meant terror and dan- 
ger, came like the distant cry of wild beasts in a 
heavy midnight of the tropics, — a warning so 
far away, that it would never stir the slumbers 
of the imperilled. 

Always this music seemed to sound and 
sing, with every note of voice or instrument, — 
‘‘ Brethren, what have we to do with that idle 
fiction of an earnest life ? While we live, let us 
live in sloth. Let us deaden ourselves with soft 
intoxications and narcotic stupors, out of reach 
of care. Why question ? Why wrestle ? Why 
agonize ? Here are roses, not too fresh, so as to 
shame the cheeks of revelry. Here is the dull, 
heavy sweetness of tropic perfume. Here is 
wine, dark purple, prostrating, Lethean. Here 
are women, wooing to languid joys. Here is 
sweet death in life. So let us drowse and slum* 
oer, while the silly world goes wearily along.” 

Emasculated music ! Such music as tyranny 
over mind and spirit calls for, to lull its un- 
manned subjects into sensual calm. Such as an 


258 


CECIL DREEME. 


Italian pricstliood has encouraged, to make its 
people forget that they were men, and remember 
that they were and would ever be slaves. Music 
that no tyrant need ever dread, lest it should 
nerve the arm of a tyrannicide. Music that 
would never ring to any song of freedom, or 
chime with any lay of tender and ennobling love. 

The story was as base as the strain. There 
was tragedy, indeed, in it, and death. But 
a neat, graceful, orderly death, in white satin. 
Nothing ugly, like blood and pangs ; nothing dis- 
tressing, like final repentance with tears, or final 
remorse with sobs and anguish. The moral was, 
that after a life of revelry,* not too frantic, to 
die by digestible poison, when pleasure began to 
pall, was a very proper and pretty exit. 

Delicious music, and only soothing if music 
were simply a corporeal influence, but utterly 
enervating to the soul. I felt it. I was aware 
of a deterioration in myself. I passed into a 
Sybaritic mood, — a mood of consent, — of ac- 
cepting facts as they were, and missing nothing 
that could give a finer joy to my sensuous traii- 
quilllty. In this frame of mind, the degree and 
kind of mv passion for Emma Denman satisfied 
mo wholly. I yielded to it. 

And she, in the same lulled and dreamy state, 
lost the dignity of manner which had kept ua 
apart. She no longer shrank as slie had been 


CECIL DKEEME. 


259 


vTont to do when my voice or words conveyed a 
lover meaning. Her shyness was gone. She 
seemed to yield herself to me, fully and finally. 

All the while the swelling, flowing, soothing 
strains of honeyed music hung around us, and 
when the movement of the drama paused, our 
minds pursued the same intention in our talk. 

We agreed that all regret was idle ; that sor- 
row was more idle than regret ; that error 
brought its little transitory pang, and so should 
be forgotten ; that mundane creatures should not 
be above mundane joys in this fair world, reek- 
ing with sights and sounds of pleasure, and all 
lavish with what sense and appetite desire. We 
agreed that it was all unwisdom to perplex tlie soul 
with too much aspiration ; better not aspire than 
miss attainment, and so pine and waste, as one 
might sigh his soul away that loved a cloud. 

Between the acts, I saw Densdeth moving 
about, welcome everywhere, — the man who had 
the key of the world. A golden key Densdeth 
carried. All the salable people, and, alas! that 
includes all but a mere decimation, threw open 
tlieir doors to Densdeth. Opera-box and the 
tenants of the box were free to him. 

The drama was nearly done, and he had not 
been to pay his respects to Emma Denman, 
though he had bowed and smiled in congratu- 
Vtio’^ . 


260 


CECIL DREE]\rE. 


“ Densdetli does not come to tell you how briL 
liantly you are looking to-night,” I said. 

“ I do not need his verdict,” she said, coldly 
enough ; — and then, as if I might take the cold- 
ness to myself, she added, “ since I have yours, 
and it is favorable.” 

‘‘ Yes ; my verdict is this, — Guilty, — guilty 
of being your most fascinating self, — guilty of 
a liner charm to-ni^ht than ever before.” 

“ Guilty ! ” she said, turning from me. “ Guil- 
ty, thrice repeated ! Do use some less ominous 
word.” 

Tiie music ceased. The curtain slowly de- 
scended, and hid the sham deatli-scenc. There 
was the usual formal applause. The conceited 
tenor in his velvet doublet, unsullied by his late 
despair, the truculent basso, now in jovial mood, 
the prima donna, past her prime, sidled along, 
hand in hand, behind the foot-lights, and bowed 
to the backs of two thirds of the audience, and to 
the mufUed resonance of the wdiite gloves of the 
other third. 

The spiritual influence of the opera remained, 
mingled wdth a sliglit forlornness, the reaction 
after luxurious excitement. 

I left Emma Denman in the corridor, and 
WTiit to find the carriage. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


A LAUGH AND A LOOK. 

In the lobby of the Opera-House was the usual 
tlirong, — fat dowagers, quite warm enough with 
their fat, and wretchedly red-hot under a grand 
exhibition of furs ; pretty girls, in the prettiest of 
opera-cloaks, white and pink and blue, and with 
downy hoods ; anxious papas, indifferent brothers, 
bored husbands, eager lovers, ineligible young 
men taking out mamma, while her daughter 
hung on tlie arm of the eligible. 

Such was the scene within the Quatorze Street 
lobby. Without, in a raw, drizzly March niglit, 
was a huddle of coaches, and on every box a 
coachman, swearing his worst. 

It was some time before, in the confusion, I 
could find the Denman carriage. At last I dis- 
covered it, and went up-stairs for Emma. 

As I ran up the stairs, and was just at the top 
steps, whence I should turn into the corridor 
where the lady was waiting, I heard the ominou? 
sound of Densdeth’s laugh. 

It came from where she stood. I paused. 


262 


CECIL DREEME. 


Instantly, in answer, and in thorough sympathy 
with that liateful tone, I heard another laugh. 
It seemed even baser, more cynical and false, than 
Densdeth’s ; for threaded in it, and tarnished by 
the contact, were silver notes I had often heard 
in genuine merriment. 

‘‘ Emma Denman ! I thought, with a shiver 

How dares she let herself respond to his debas- 
ing jests ? How can she echo him, — and echo 
that jarring music familiarly, as if she had long 
been a pupil of the master ? ” 

The pang of this question drove me forward. 
I turned into the corridor. 

Only those two were standing there, — Dens- 
deth and she. His back was turned toward me. 
The glare of a gas-liglit overhead fell full upon 
her. 

The languor caused by that enfeebling music 
was visible in her posture and expression. Her 
manner, too, to a sensitive observer like myself, 
betrayed a certain drowsy recklessness. 

And then, as I entered the corridor by a 
side-door, before she was conscious of my pres- 
ence, she gave Densdeth a look which curdled 
my blood. 

I may live long. I am not without a share 
of hal3piness. I am at peace. God lias given 
me much that is good and beautiful. , The atmos- 
phere of my existence is healthy. Bid there is 


CECIL DREEIilE. 


263 


one memory in my heart which I have never 
ventured to recall until this moment, — which I 
bear down upon and crowd back whenever it 
stirs and struggles to burst up into daylight. 
There is one memory which has power to burn 
away my earthly bliss with a single touch, and 
to throw such a ghastly coloring over all the 
world, tliat my neighbor seems a traitor and 
my Creator my foe. That memory is the look 
I saw Emma Denman give to Densdeth. 

It was my revelation of evil in the woman 1 
had honestly and earnestly resolved to love and 
trust. It showed to me first, by the fiery pang 
of a personal experience, the curse of sin. 

Sin, — I fancied that I knew it well enough. 

Sin, — I had been wont to class myself lightly 
among its foes ; to feel a transitory gloom when 
I heard of its harm ; to wonder and protest, 
nonchalantly, at its existence ; to believe tliat 
its power was broken, with the other ancient 
tyrannies, and that it would presently accept a 
banishment and leave the world to a better day. 

Ah no ! T had never dreamed a dream of 
wliat is sin. But now the revelation came to me. 

I am a stalwart man. This blow aged and 
enfeebled me as might a sorrowful lifetime. Th.e 
weight of the thousands of ill-doing years, all the 
accumulated evil of the old bad centuries, rf)S0 
suddenly, like a mountain, and fell upon me. 


264 CECIL DREEME. 

I cannot describe this look of hers. I do not 
wish to. It is enough to say tliat it told mo 
of a dishonorable secret between the two. It 
told me that at this moment, however it might 
be in a mood of stronger self-possession, she 
felt no compunction, no remorse, no agony, that 
such a secret existed, — nothing but an indo- 
lent acquiescence in the treason. 

And this was the interpretation of so much 
mystery. This justified my instinctive suspicions. 
This punished my generosity and my resolve to 
quell the warnings of nature. This explained 
the inexplicable. In that one instant I learned 
my capacity for an immortal misery. 

They heard my step. Densdeth turned, and 
bowed to me politely enough, smiling also, as 
if to himself, behind his black moustache. 

It was not the first time that his scornful 
smile had seemed to me to take a cast of tri- 
umph as he regarded me. But such fleeting 
expression had always disappeared, stealing back 
like an assassin wlio has peered out too soon, 
and may awake his drowsy victim. I too had 
always had my own covert smile. For I was 
quite satisfied that Densdeth was never to win 
any very substantial victory over me. I could 
seek his society in perfect safety, so I fancied 
against its debasing influence. He never should 
wield me as he did Raleigh, nor master me as 


265 


CECIL DREEME. 

he did that swinish multitude at the club, or 
those wolves in Wall Street. 

But now his vanishing smile of triumph chilled 
me. This harm was a more deadly harm than 
aught I had dreamed of as in any man’s power. 
If I was so wronged in my faith, what would 
hinder me henceforth from losing all faiths, and 
CO becoming tlie hateful foe of my race, and 
being forced into detested alliance with this uii- 
holy s])irit — this corruption — Densdetii ! 

I wrapped the lady’s cloak about her. In 
this duty I by chance touched her arm. 
hands had become icy cold, — so this touch re- 
vealed to me, — and I shivered. She felt tho 
shock, and shivered also. Then she took my 
arm, and moved forward hastily, as if the spot 
had become hateful to her. 

Densdeth bowed, and left us. 

We walked down stairs. She clung to my 
arm wearily. 

I pitied her with such deep and sorrowful 
pity for the seeming discovery of this evening, 
that I felt tliat I must speak kindly; I spoke, 
and my voice sounded to me like the voice o^ 
one unknown, so desolate it was. 

“ Emma, you are tired. Poor child ! ” 

‘‘ Emma ! ” — there was no withdrawing into 
forms again. Ah, nevermore ! Nothing done 
could be undone. 


12 


266 


CECIL DREEME. 


‘‘ You arc very kind,” she said, with an altered 
manner, — sadness instead of languor. “ No one 
has ever been so tender with me. 0 Eobert ^ 
why did you not come years ago ? ” 

While my answer to this pleading questiou 
lingered, we entered tlie lobby. 

A young lady, standing there alone and for 
lorn, pounced upon Emma Denman. 

“ Dear Emma ! ” cried Miss Matilda Mildood, 
‘‘ I ’m so glad you are here. Do take me home. 
Our coachman is wild with drink, and my brother 
Pursy is in danger of his life.” 

“ I shall be most ha})py,” said Emma. 

I put the ladies into the Denman carriage, 
rescued Pursy from his scuffle, and we drove off 
together. 

Pursy Mildood was a compliment-box, ^Matilda 
a rattle-box. Pursy played his little selection of 
compliments to Miss Denman. Matilda rattled 
to me. They filled time and space, as it was 
their business to do. Triflers have their office in 
this world of racking passions and exhausting 
purposes. 

I needed this moment’s pause. I could not 
have endured the lete-d-tele with Emma in the 
carriage. The interval, while Matilda sprinkled 
me with a drizzle of opera talk and fashionable 
gossip, gave me time to bethink myself. 

What must I do and say ? 


CECIL DREEME. 


267 


To-night, nothing. 

To-night, if I sj)oko in my agony, I must ac- 
cuse. Let me wait for a calmer moment. Let 
me reflect, and assure myself that my thonglit 
was not doing a pure heart a cruel and irrepa- . 
rable wrong. 

The Mildoods’ house was opposite the Den- 
mans’. Compliments and prattle came to an 
end, unconscious of tlie emotions they had for a 
time diverted. We dropped brother and sister at 
their door, and drove across. 

I handed Emma out, unlocked the door with 
her key, and stepped within to say good Alight. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


A PARTING. 

‘‘ Your hands were like ice, when you touched 
my arm,” said Emma Denman. “ You have 
taken cold. Come in. I will play Hebe, and 
make you a goblet of hot nectar.” 

“ No, I must go. Good night.” 

“ Mr. Byng, Robert I What has happened ? ” 
Do not ask me ? ” 

‘‘ You appall me with your voice of a Rhada- 
manthus. Have I offended you ? Is it fatal ? ” 

The light of a large globe in the hall fell full 
upon her face as she spoke. All the eager, tri- 
umphal look of the early evening had departed. 
All the languid acquiescence was gone. Gone 
was even the faintest shadow of the expression 
that had turned my blood to i le. Pale horror 
— yes, no loss than horror — seemed suddenly 
to have mastered her. Was she too now first 
learning the sin and misery of sin ? 

She stood in the grand hall of the stately 
house, a slight, elegant figure iii mourning, with 
the abundant drapery of her cloak falling ahoui 


CECIL DKEEME. 


269 


her. There were no other lights except the 
tempered brilliancy of the globe overhead. It 
was after midnight. We were quite alone, ex- 
cept that a white statue, severely robed from 
head to foot, and just withdrawn in a niche, 
watched our interview, as it might be the ghostl7 
presence of Clara Denman dead. 

As Emma stood awaiting my answer, her look 
of horror quieted. She seemed to me like one 
who has heard her death-sentence, and is re 
signed. 

I could not force myself to answer, and she 
spoke again. 

“ Robert, if you have fault to find with me, do 
not tell me so to-night. To-morrow, — come to- 
morrow ! Perhaps we may still be friends. Good 
night.” 

She gave me her hand. It was burning hot. 
I held it in mine. 

There we stood, — the chaste and ghostly statue 
watching. 

We could not separate. I trusted her again. 
I cursed myself for my doubts. 

Should I, for the chance of one brief, passing 
look, sacrifice the woman whom I had maturely 
concluded that I loved, who loved me, — for so 
I was persuaded ? 

Should I stain a maiden’s image in my heart 
with this foul suspicion, — a suspicion I dared 
not state to myself in terms ? 


270 


CECIL DRKEME. 

( 

Could 1 there erase from my mind all those 
pleasant memories of childhood, so sweetly anew 
revived, and all the riper confidences of onr 
friendship, and believe that this brilliant crea- 
ture’s life was one monstrous lie, which she must 
daily, hourly, momently, harden herself to repeat ? 

Could I convince myself that her fascination 
w^as utter treachery, — that she, a grisly witch 
at heart, had carefully, with fairest-seeming spell, 
and lulling daily all my doubts away, entranced 
me until she deemed me wholly hers ? 

Had I not been for the moment under the 
sickly influence of that enervating music ? 

Had not my mind gained 4 permanent taint in 
the debasing society I had refused to resolutely 
shun? Was I not doing her foul injustice, and 
s^isiting it unfairly and cruelly upon her, that I 
had let myself be the comrade of ignoble and 
sensual people, — of Densdeth, to whom no 
purity was sacred ? 

Could she, my only intimate among women, 
be responsible for the lowering of my moral tone, 
so that I did not abhor, and had not been for 
these late months loathing, all contact with vice ? 
It must be that a man who loves a pure and ele- 
vating woman will no more palter with evil. He 
is abashed by her wdiiteness of soul. He will not 
carry into her presence the recent taint of stain- 
'tjo: associa^tes. He will strive to breathe no other 


CECIL DKEEME. 


271 


but that sweet serenity of atmosphere where she 
dwells, and so refresh and recreate his holier 
being. 

Ah, these bitter doubts! They did in my sink- 
ing heart justify themselves. 

And so, as I could not speak the tender, trust- 
ful, joyful lover words, nor any words but sad 
reproaches and questions of distrust, I stood 
there, silent, holding fast her hand. 

Then, in the silence, the terrible thought over- 
came me, that if by any syllable or gesture, or 
even by the dismay of an involuntary look, I 
should convey my suspicions to Emma Denman, 
there would be another tragedy in that ill-omened 
house, another despair, another mystery, — no 
mystery to me, — and all the sickening horror of 
a death. 

Good-night,” said Emma again. 

But still she did not withdraw her hand. 

We did not hold each other with the close 
grasp of earnest, confident friendship, nor with 
that strong pressure of love which seems to strive 
to make the two beings one life. It was a nerve- 
less, lifeless clutch. Her burning hand had 
grown icy cold in mine. She held me feebly, as 
a drowning woman might wearily, and every 
weary moment still more wearily, cling to the 
tainting shoulder of a drowning man, as the great 
solemn waves fell on him, one by one. 


272 


CECIL DREEME. 


A dreary moment. 

It tore something from my earthly life that 
never can return. My youth faded away l^om 
me, as we stood there miserably. My youth 
shrank and withered, never to revive again and 
be the same bright youth, whatever warmth of 
after sunshine game. The blight of sin was upon 
me. The sense of an unknown horror of sin 
grew about me, and I became a coward for the 
moment, — a coward, smitten down by the dread 
that for me, forever, faith was utterly dead, and 
so my heart would be imbittered into a vague 
and fiendish vengeance for its loss. 

“ Robert,” said she, at last, you will not 
speak. You are murdering me with this omi- 
nous silence. How have you learned all at once 
to hate me ? ” 

“ Hate you ? ” 

“ Worse then ! Do you distrust me ? ” 

Why should I ? We will not speak of this 
now. That music has taken all the manliness 
out of me, — that, or some power as subtle. I 
will see you to-morrow. By broad daylight, all 
the ugly fancies that beset me now will vanish.” 

‘‘ Yes,” she said, more drearily than evei ; 

fancies fade with sunshine ; facts grow moi e 
fatally prominent. Good night.” 

She withdrew her hand. 

Slie moved wearily and sadly away, — a slight 


CECIL DREEME. 


273 


graceful figure in mourning, draped with the 
heavy folds of a cloak. 

Half-way up the stairs she paused and turned, 
grasping the massive dark rail with both her 
white hands. Light from the floor above threw 
her face and form into magical relief, hardly less 
a statue than that marble figure watching us. 

“ Good-bye,” she said, in a tone mournful as a 
last adieu. 

“ Good night,” I answered ; and so we parted. 

I I walked hastily home to Chrysalis. It was a 
raw March night, with a cold storm threatening, 
and uttering its threats in melancholy blasts and 
I dashes of sleet. 

How chilly, lonely, ghostly it looked in the 
marble-paved corridors of Chrysalis ! 1 opened 

the great door in front with my pass-key. The 
wind banged it after me with a loud clap. But 
no closed door could repel the urgent chase of 
that night’s cruel thoughts. 

I was wretchedly timorous and superstitious 
aftef these excitements. As I passed the pad- 
locked door of Densdeth’s dark room, next to 
mine, I fancied him lurking within, and leering 
triumphantly at me through the key-hole. And 
then in the sound of the storm, sighing along 
the halls and staircases, and shaking the narrow 
window's, I seemed to hear that mocking lai’gh 
of Densdeth’s, — that hard, exulting laugh of 


274 


CECIL DREEME. 


his, — that expressive laugh, — saying, with all 
the cruelty of scorn, and proclaiming to the scoff- 
ing legions who love the fall of noble souls, — 
“ Here, at last ! here is another who trusted 
and is deceived. Now his illusions are over. 
He will join us frankly, and share our jolly joys. 
Welcome, Robert Byng, to a new experiment 
of life ! Come ; you shall have revenge ! You 
shall spoil tlie happiness of others, as your own 
is spoilt. We offer you the delicious honey of 
revenge. Sweet it is ! ah, yes ! the sweetest 
thing ! You shall be one of us, — a tempter. 
Come ! ” 

Such sounds seemed to me to issue from that 
dark room of Densdeth’s, to clothe themselves 
with those tones of his, which I had heard to- 
night echoed by the lips of the woman I longed 
to love, and to pervade the building, like a bat- 
winged flight of fiendish presences, claiming me 
as their comrade, whether I would or no. 

1 entered my great, dusky chamber. The fire 
had gone out ; it was chilly and dark within. * In 
the faint light from the street lamp, streaming 
through the narrow mullioned windows, the an- 
cient furniture, carved with odd devices of grif- 
fins, looked grotesque and weird. All the pic- 
tures, statues, reliefs, and casts in the room 
stared at me strang.ely. Was I suddenly another 
man than the undejected person who had lived 


CKCIL DREEME. 276 

BO many Aveeks under their inspection ? The 
portrait of Stillfleet’s mother, a large, dignified 
woman, gazed kindly and pityingly upon me, with 
a motlier’s look, as I liglited tlie gas. 

On the table Locksley had deposited a parcel 
addressed to me. I unwrapped it. It was the 
frame I had ordered for my present, Cecil 
Dreeme’s sketch. 

I put it in the frame, and examined it again. 
Ojily a sketch ; but very masterly, full of color, 
full of expression, full of sweet refinement not 
diminishing its power. 

If it Avere not for Dreeme,” I said aloud, “ I 
should despair. Him I trust. Him 1 love Avith 
a love passing the love of women. If I should 
lose him, if he should abandon me, I might be 
ready to take the world as Densdeth wishes. 
What can a soul do Avithout one near and com- 
rade soul to love and trust ? ” 

Then the mocking wind through the corridors, 
and all along the AAdntry streets without, answered 
me with new scoffs of the same derisive laughter. 

I lifted my eyes from the picture. That ancient 
tapestry caught my eye, Avhere Raleigh had found 
Densdeth in the demon. Tliat malignant face 
— Densdetli’s, and no other — Avas looking at me 
witli a meaning smile. 

I tore doAvn the tapestry, and slunk to bed. 
The biei.sing sleep, foreshadower of that larger 


276 


CECIL DREEME. 


blessing death, fell upon me. Sleep, the death 
after the brief cycle of a day, received me ten- 
derly, and restored me, that I might be man 
enough to bear the keener pangs and sterner 
griefs of the morrow. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


FAME AWAITS DREEME. 

1 WAS indisposed next morning to face my as- 
Bcciates at the club, or any chance acquaintance 
at tlie Minedurt. I went off and took a dismal, 
solitary breakfast at Selleridge’s. The place had 
a claim on my gratitude, since it had supplied the 
materials of our gentle orgie in Chrysalis. 

As I walked forlornly back, I endeavored to 
prepare myself for my appointed interview with 
Emma Denman. 

I knew that a woman may blind herself to the 
measure and quality of a man’s admiration ; I 
knew that she can even desperately accept his 
heart ; but I also knew that only a woman 
thoroughly deteriorated by deceit can listen to a 
lover’s final words of trust, and still conceal from 
him one single fact in all her history tliat might 
forbid his love. She must reveal, or let her 
lover know she cannot reveal. She will, unless 
she has grown base and shameless, scorn to be a 
lie — yes, even for a nioment, after the avowal of 
love T-r- a lie to one she loves, whatever the truth 


278 


CECIL DEEEME. 


may cost. I believed that, if I went to Finina 
Denman, and said, “ We are before God, I love 
you,” she would be true, and, if the truth com- 
manded, would say, “ Robert, you must not.” 
So w^aiting until our interview, I held my agony 
under, as one presses a finger upon a torn artery, 
while the surgeon lingers. 

In the letter-box in my door at Chrysalis 1 
found this note : — 

“ I am not well. I cannot see you this morn 
ing. I will write again, — perhaps to-day, per- 
haps to-morrow. 

“ Emma Denman.” 

My finger on the bleeding artery a little longer. 

While I stood reading and re-reading this bil 
let, in the bewilderment of one thrust back into 
suspense from the brink of certainty, I heard a 
knock at my door. 

I opened. It was Pensal, the artist. 

Fensal occupied a studio in a granite house 
which continues the architecture of Chrysalis 
along Mannering Place. It had once been a 
residence for the President. But perhaps tlio 
salary of that official grew contingent, — perha{)S 
it was paid in Muddefontaine bonds. Certain 
it was that no President now dwelt in this su])- 
plementary building ; but, like the main Chrysalis; 
R was let to lodgers. Among these was Pensal- 


CECIL DREEME. 


279 


A. friendship had begun to crystallize between 
us. He was a profound observer, as well as a 
great artist. 

Pensal came in, and looked at me for a moment 
in silence. 

“ What is it? ” said I. What new do you 
find in my face ? ” 

Much. And you too have stepped into the 
Valley of the Shadow of Death ? Well, a friend 
can only say, God help you ! It comes to us all.’' 

Yes, Pensal, the shadow is upon me.” 

“ It will pass away. You cannot believe it 
now ; but the shadow will drift away. It cannot 
blight the immortal man. Be sure of that ! ” 

‘‘ But there is immortal grief.” 

While you think so, you have a right to look 
a hundred years older than you did yesterday. 
But, Byng, I came to ask you a favor, not to 
criticise you. I am in a sea of troubles.” 

‘‘ ‘ Take arms, and by opposing end them.’ ” 

‘‘ Very well for you to say, who know better 
this moment by your own experience. So far as 
taking arms — that is towels and sponges — 
against my sea can go, I have ended it ; but its 
wet bottom remains. The fact is, that I am suf- 
fering from a vvdgar misery. My Croton pipe 
burst in the thaw last night. My studio is tlie 
bed of a lake witli ail manner of drowned ento- 
mology, looking slimy and ichtliyological.” 


280 . CECIL DREEME. 

‘‘ Do bring your work over here.’^ 

“Thank you. You have anticipated my re- 
quest.^’ 

“You are a godsend to me. I could not toler- 
ate this morning a fellow with a new treasure- 
trove of scandal, the last cynical joke or base 
story ; — and I thought of Densdeth, and other 
men, the coarsened and exaggerated shadows of 
Dens(?eth, who sometimes lounged in upon me 
for a lazy hour. 

“ I will be a treble godsend,” said Pensal. “ I 
will bring you not only myself, but two friends, 
iv^hose lips or hearts are never sullied with any 
hing scandalous or cynical.” 

“ A pair of plaster casts, — a pair of lay fig- 
ures ? ” 

“You are cynical yourself. No ; two men, 
iresh and pure.” 

“ Sn avajit, with such sports of Nature ! ” 

“ With such types of manhood ! Sion, the 
sculptor, is in town for a day or two. I caught 
him last night, and he promised to sit to me this 
morning. Towers, also, is to come and stir up 
Sion wliile he sits, — to put him through his paces 
of expression.” 

“ All, Towers and Sion ! I withdraw my doubts 
If my great barn here will serve you, pray bring 
your tools and your men over at once.” 

Pensal went off for his friends. 


CECIL DREEME. 


I was delighted with this interruption. It was 
a tourniquet on the bleeding artery. 

I liad felt too forlorn to solace myself with 
Cecil Dreemc’s society this morning. I was con- 
scious, also, that I could not see him now witliout 
pouring forth the whole story of my doubtful love 
for Emma Denman, my hesitant resolve to be her 
lover, the shock of last night, and the suspense 
of to-day. All this, with only tlie name sup- 
pressed, I knew must gush from me when I saw 
my friend of friends. And yet, by a certain in- 
explicable instinct, I shrank from thrusting such 
confidence upon him. I loved him too much, 
and with too peculiar a tenderness, to tell him 
that I had fancied I loved even a woman better 
than him. 

I had said to myself, “ I will wait for my usual 
evening walk with Dreeme, and then, if my heart 
opens toward him, I will let the current flow. 
He cannot console; he wfill teach me to be pa- 
tient.” 

Meantime I welcomed the visit of Pensal and 
our two friends, as a calm distracUon in my mis- 
erable mood. I was too much shaken and un- 
manned to trust myself out in the w^orld and al 
my tasks. 

Presently Pensal arrived with the two gentle- 
men, and set up his easel before my window. 

I need hardly describe men so well known as 


282 


CECIL DEEEMfi. 


the three artists, Sion, Towers, and Pensal. In- 
deed, as their business in tins drama is merely to 
liasten one event by a few hours, it would be 
impertinent to distinguish them as salient char- 
acters. 1 glance at them merely, as they enter, 
lialt a moment, do their part and disappear. 

It was a blessed relief to me that morning to 
have their society. And now that I compel my- 
self to write this sorrowful history, the relief is 
hardly less, to pause here and recall ho\y blessed 
then it was. I had never known fully until then 
what it was to have the friendship of pure and 
true hearts. 

Pensal sat down and wielded his crayon with 
a rapid hand. Each of the party, artist, sitter, 
critic, began to scintillate, to flash and glow, 
according to the fire that was in him. 

Stillfleet’s collection suggested much of our 
conversation. It was, as I have said, an epitome 
o{‘ all history. My three guests took the Ameri- 
can view of history ; that, give the wmrld results, 
the means by which those results were attained 
cease to be of any profound value or interest. 
Everything ancient is perpetually on its trial, — 
whether its day has not come to be superannuated, 
and so respectably buried. Antiquity deserves 
commendation and gratitude ; but no peculiar 
revercimc or indulgence. The facts and systems 
of the oast are mainly rubbish now ; what is 


CECIL DREEME. 


288 


precious is the spirit of the present, wliich those 
systems have reared, or at least failed to strangle, 
and those facts have mauled strong and tempered 
fine. 

Tliese three great artists act on this theory, 
adapted to art. Hence their vigor. Hence also 
their recognition by a nation whose principle is 
faith in the present, — the only healthy faith for 
a man or Man. 

While the magnetic current of a lively conver- 
sation flowed, Pensal worked away at his paper. 

Presently, on the blank surface, a semblance of 
a man’s face began to appear, rather fancied than 
distinguished, as we behold a countenance far 
away, and say, “ Who is it ? ” — the question 
implying the instant answer, as we approach. 

It is he ! ” 

Sion’s head, mildly lion-like, grew forth from 
tlie sheet, — lion-like, with its heavy mane of hair 
and beard. A potent face, but gentle. 

Slowly the creation grew more distinct. The 
face drew near, and demanded recognition for its 
spiritual traits. 

It was Sion’s self. 

And yet it was not the Sion who sat there 
oefore us, in high spirits, making jokes, telling 
stoj-ies, laughing witli a frank ond almost boyish 
gayety of heart, as if his life wos all careless jubi- 
lee, and never visited by those dreams of tender^ 


284 


CECIL DREEMK 


na^ , of pensive and of melancholy sweetness, 
which he puts into undying marble. 

Yet it was this joyous companion too, and 
the other and many another Sion, whom we 
had always known, but never perceived that 
we had known, until this moment. 

In fact, Pensal, a master, had not merely seized 
and combined the essence of all Sion’s possible 
looks in all possible moods ; but he had divined 
and created tlie inspiration the sculptor’s face 
would wear, if changeful mortal features could 
show the calm and final beauty of the immortal 
soul. The picture was Sion’s apotheosis. 

“ Come and look at yourself, Sion,” said Tow- 
ers, as this expression at last by a subtle touch 
revealed itself. Pensal has drawn you as you 
will look in Yalhalla, if you are a good boy, 
and don’t make any bad statues, and so got youi 
own niche there at last.” 

Sion stepped round to survey himself. 

I am lucky,” said he, ‘‘ Pensal, to liavo 
nothing to be ashamed of lurking in my heart. 
You would be forced to obey your insight, drag 
it out, and set it inexorably in full view, in 
my portrait. It ’s well for Byng, there, that 
you are not doing liiin tliis morning.” 

“ Why ? ” said I. 

“ You look as if ‘ Et tu, Brute ? ’ had been 
gi\'ing you a deadly stab. But what a poot 


CECIL DREEME. 


285 


bunglei, compared with Pensal, the sun is in 
picturing men ! ” continued Sion. To say 
nothing of his swelling our noses and blubber- 
ing our lips, spoiling our lights and blackening 
our shades, he can only take us as we choose to 
look while he is having his little wink at us.” 

“ And a man cannot choose to look his noblest 
on occasion. A got-up look is generally a grim- 
ace,” says Towers. 

“ Well, Pensal,” said Sion, “your picture con- 
vinces me that I am not a miserable failure and 
a humbug, who cannot see anything in marble 
or out. Now let me free for a moment. I 
am tired of sitting to be probed and flajed.” 

Sion took his furlough, and strayed about the 
room, glancing at Stillflect’s precious objects. 1 
stepped aside to get a cigar for Pensal. 

“ Ah ! ” cried Sion. “ Here is a fresh thing. 
This was never painted in Europe ; and yet 1 
do not know any one here who could do it.” 

He had found the sketch, my present from 
Cecil Dreeme. In my sickness of heart last 
night, I had neglected the painter’s injunction, 
and left it exposed on my table, half covered 
by a newspaper. 

Sion held it up for inspection. 

Now that it had been seen, there was nothing 
..o do, except to get the approval of these final 
authorities, and communicate it to Dreeme. 


286 


CECIL DREEME. 


It is a new hand,” said I, “ what do yon 
think of it ? ” 

“ She has great power, as well as delicacy,” 
said Pensal, — the others waiting for him to 
speak. 

“ She ! Who ? ” I asked. 

“ The artist.” 

‘‘ Odd fancy of yours ! It is a man.” 

‘‘ What ! and paint only a back view of a 
woman ? I supposed that being a woman, as 
the general handling too suggests, she took less 
interest in her own sex ; or, on the other hand, 
fancied that she could not represent it worthily.” 

0 no ! ” said I. He had no female model.” 

‘‘ Probably,” said Towers, “ he is too young 
to have a woman’s image in his brain, which 
fevers him until he wreaks it on a canvas.” 

“ Man or woman,” said Sion, ‘‘ and I confess 
it seems to me to have a somewhat epicene 
character, it is a very promising work, — a pretty 
anecdote well told. I sliould like to see what 
this C. D. — it seems to be so signed — can do 
ill other subjects calling for deeper feeling.” 

‘‘ A friend of niine in tlie buildino; has other 
drawings and sketches by the same hand. 1 
will see if I can borrow them,” said I. 

“ Do,” said Sion. ‘‘ If they are worthy of 
this, we must know him, and have him known 
at once. Fame waits him. Here is that fine 
something called Genius.” 


CECIL DKEEME. 


287 


If Dreeme would only profit by this chance, 
and give his fame into the hands of my friends, 
his success was achieved. 

I forgot my own sorrows, and ran up-slairs, 
eager to persuade the recluse to seize this mo- 
ment, to terminate his exile and step forth into 
the light of day. 


CHAPTER XXY. 


CHURM BEFORE DREEME’S PICTURE. 

Pull of liopo for my friend, I left the three 
artists below, and darted np to his studio. 

I knocked lightly, thinking a quick ear listened, 
and a quick voice would respond. 

No answer. 

I knocked again, distinctly and deliberately, 
and listened with some faint beginning of anx- 
iety. Yesterday I had not seen him. Was he 
ill again ? 

Still no answer. 

All the remembrance of the night when Locks 
ley and I first made entrance there rushed back 
upon me. 

I knocked once more, and spoke my name. 

Again no answer. 

1 thundered at the door, striking it hard enough 
to hurt the dull wood that was baffling me. 

Profound silence within. 

“ Is it possible that he has ventured out into 
daylight ? It would be an unlucky moment for 
his first absence, now when good-fortune waits to 


CECIL DREEME. 


289 


befall him. His Fame is here, holding her breath 
to trumpet him, and he is away.” 

At the same time I doubted much if he could 
have gone. His terror of exposing himself was 
still great, and would be more extravagant after 
his panic-struck flight from Densdeth. 

An indelinable dread seized upon me. I re- 
sisted, and dashed down stairs to the janitor’s 
room. 

I knocked peremptorily. 

Locksley peered out, holding the door ajar. 

Hreeme ! ” whispered I, panting, do you 
know anything of Dreeme ? ” 

‘‘ It ’s you, sir,”, says Locksley. ‘‘ Come in. It 
was only strangers I was keeping out.” 

Don’t let any one enter,” said a voice within, 
— a miserable voice, between a whimper and a 
moan. 

He won’t hurt you, Towner,” said Locksley. 
“ This is Mr. Byng, a friend of Mr. Churm’s.” 

The janitor looked worn and worried. By the 
stove, in a rocking-chair, sat, slinking, a misera- 
ble figure of a man. There sat Towner, a blood- 
less, unwholesome being, sick of himself, — that 
most tenacious and incurable of all difieases. 
There he sat, sick witli that chronic malady, 
himself, — a self all vice, all remorse, and all de- 
spair. Himself, — his cowering look said that he 
knew the fatal evil that was devouring his life, 

13 


8 


290 


CECIL DREEME. 


and that he longed to free himself from its bane 
by one bold act of surgery, such as his evasive 
eyes would never venture to face, such as his 
nerveless fingers dared not execute. 

My glance identified the man, but I did not 
pause to study him. I had my own troubles to 
consider. 

‘‘ Locksley,” I said, seizing him by the arm, 
‘‘ where is Cecil Dreeme ? ’’ 

^ly perturbation communicated itself to the 
janitor. 

“ Yes,” said he, “ I had n’t given my mind to it ; 
but he did not answer when Dora went up with 
his breakfast. Then Towner was brought in, 
and we ’ve been so busy with him that I forgot 
to send her up again.” 

“ He is not there. He does not answer my 
knock.” 

Going out in the daytime is as unlikely for 
him as the sun’s showing at midnight. I mis- 
trust something ’s happened.” 

“ Do not say so, Locksley. Disaster to him is 
misery to me. Yes, double misery to-day ! ” 

“ Did you have your walk together last night ? 

‘‘ No. I was at the opera until late.” 

“ We must try his door again.” 

I can’t be left here alone,” feebly protested 
Towner. 

“ Dora will take care of you.” 


CECIL DREEME. 


291 


“ But Densdeth might come/’ shuddered the 
invalid. 

‘‘ He never comes here. He ’d better not,” said 
Locksley, bristling. 

Wlio keeps the key of liis dark room ? ” 

‘‘ His servant, I suppose. Come, Mr. Byng.” 
Locksley led the way up stairs. Towner is n’t 
long for this world, you see,” said he. We 
thought he ’d better die among friends. Mr. 
Churm will be back this morning to talk to him, 
and get his facts.” 

It was afternoon, and the boys of Chrysalis, 
the College, were skylarking in the main corri- 
dor. Their rumor died away as we climbed the 
stairs. It was as quiet at Cecil Dreeme’s door 
as on the night when we first forced entrance, — 
as quiet without, and, when we knocked, as silent 
within. 

Locksley tried the door. It was unlocked. 
He opened. We entered, in a tremor of ap- 
prehension. 

My friend of friends was gone ! Gone ! and 
another, some unfriendly and insolent intruder, 
had been there desecrating the place. The 
picture of Lear was flung from the eDdCl and 
lying on the floor. The portfolio was open, and 
its drawings scattered. Upon one — a sketch 
of two sisters tending a mild and venerable 
father — a careless heel had trodden. Hvei; 


1>92 


CECIL DREE^IE. 


bedrooin tlie same rude visitor had violated, 
and articles of the young painter’s limited ward 
robe lay about. How diiferent from the order 
that usually lent elegance to his bare walls and 
scanty furniture ! 

Locksley and I looked at each other in indig- 
nant consternation. 

“ My old scare has got hold, and is shaking 
me hard,” said the janitor. ‘‘ Some of them 
he was hiding from must have found him out, 
and been here rummaging, to pry into what 
lie ’s been at all this time. When did you 
see him, Mr. Byng ? ” 

Not yesterday. Night before last, — can it 
be only night before last that we met Dens- 
deth ? ” 

“ Densdeth ! ” said Locksley, bristling more 
than ever with alarm. “ Is he in this business ? ” 
1 dread to think so,” said I, unnerved, and 
sinking into Dreeme’s arm-chair. And then 
across my mind flitted my friend’s warnings 
against Densdeth, the meeting at Mrs. Bilkes’s 
steps, the covert inspection, Densdeth’s trium- 
phant, cruel look, the panic, the flight, the con- 
versation, — all the mystery of Dreeme. 

“ What are we going to do ? ” said Locksley, 
staring at me, in a maze. “ Henry Clay’s ghost 
could n’t persuade me tliat Mr. Dreeme had 
got himself into a scrape. Something ’s hap 


CECIL DREEME. 


293 


})Oiied to tlie lad His enemies liave taken hold 
of him. Why did you leave him, Mr. Byng ? ” 

“ Why did I leave him ? Why ? To be taught 
the bitterest lesson a soul can learn,” said I ; 
and again I seemed to hear that mocking sound 
of Deiisde til’s laugh, echoed from the lips of 
Emma Denman, in the corridor of the Opera- 
House; again I seemed to see that hateful look 
of hers. The blight fell upon me more cruelly. 
I could not act. 

“ If Mr. Churm were only here ! ” said Locks- 
ley, forlornly, seeing my prostration. 

With the word, there came through the open 
door the sound of a heavy trunk bumping up 
the staircase, now dinting the wall, and now 
cracking the banisters, and presently we heard 
Churm’s hearty voice hail from below : “ Hillo, 
porter ! that ’s the wrong way.” 

“ There comes help,” cried Locksley. 

‘‘ Call him up,” said I, and the janitor hurried 
after him. 

In came Churm, sturdy, benevolent, wise. His 
moral force reinvigorated me at a glance. His 
keen, brave face solved difficulty, and cleared 
doubt. 

‘‘ What is it, Byng ? ” said he. “ What has 
come to tliis young painter ? ” 

Before I could answer, his eye caugiit Dreeme’s 
picture of Lear, resting against the easel, where 


294 


CECIL DREEIilE. 


I had replaced it. His calm manner was gone 
He sprang forward, kneeled before the easel^ 
stared intently. Then he looked eagerly at me. 

What does this mean ? ” he exclaimed. 

“ Mean ! ” repeated I, astonished at his manner 

‘‘ Yes. Who painted this ? ” He spoke almost 
frantically. 

“ Cecil Dreeme,” I replied. 

‘‘ Cecil Dreeme ! Cecil Dreeme ! Who is Cecil 
Dreeme ? ’’ 

“ The young painter who lives here.” 

“ Where is he ? Where ? ” 

‘‘ Gone, spirited away, I fear.” 

What are you doing here,” said he, almost 
fiercely. 

“ Mr. Churm,” said I, “ I do not under- 
stand your tone nor your manner. What do 
you know of this recluse ? ” 

I seemed faintly to remember how Dreeme 
had shown a slight repugnance, more than once, 
when I named Churm as a trusty friend. 

“You, — what do you know,” he rejoined, 
staring again at the picture. “ Tell me, sir ; 
what do you know ? ” 

“ In a word, this,” replied I, resolved not 
to take offence at his roughness. “ The even- 
ing I moved into Chrysalis, Locksley called me 
to go up with him to this chamber. He feared 
the tenant was dying alone.” 


CECIL DREEME. 


29c 


“ Poor child ! poor child ! interjected Churm. 
“Wo broke in, and found him in a death- 
trance. Locksley’s thoughtfulness saved him. 
We soon warmed, fed, and cheered him back 
to life.” 

“ God bless you both ! ” said Churm, fervently. 
“ Churm,” I asked, ‘‘ what does this mean ? 
Do you know my friend ? ” 

“ Go on ! Tell your story ! ” 

Little to tell of fact, much of feeling. There 
was a mystery about Mr. Dreeme. I took him, 
mystery and all, unquestioned, to my heart of 
hearts. He was utterly alone, and I befriended 
him. I befriended unawares an angel. He has 
been blue sky to me.” 

“ I am sure of it,” said Churm ; but the 
facts, Byng ! the facts of his disappearance ! ” 

‘‘ He kept himself absolutely secluded. He 
• never saw out-of-doors by daylight. We walked 
together constantly in the evening. I made it 
my duty to force him to a constitutional every 
day. We were walking as usual night before 
last, when we met Densdeth.” 

“ No ! ” exclaimed Churm, vehemently. “ Dens- 
deth ! I have been waiting for that name. Has 
he put his cloven hoof on this trail ? ” 

‘‘ Densdetli observed us. I noticed ugly tri- 
umph in his face. Dreeme was struck with a 
panic at this meeting. I thought it instinct. It 


CECIL DEEEMR 


29t) 

may have been knowledge. Densdeth, we siife 
pcctcd, followed us. Dree me dragged me away 
in llight. But it would be easy for Densdeth, if 
he pleased, to watch Chrysalis, see me enter, and 
identify my companion. I am all in tlie dark, 
Churm. Can you help me to any light ? ” 

Let us hope so ! Locksley, is Towner here ? ” 

‘‘ Yes sir ; and ready to make a clean breast 
of it.” 

“ Bring him up to Mr. Byiig’s quarters. I have 
no fire, and the poor creature must be coddled. 
I may take this liberty, Byng? You are inter- 
ested. It may touch the question of Dreeme. 
It does so, I believe.” 

“ Certainly ; my room is yours. Pensal was 
there, drawing Sion ; but he will be done by this 
time. But, my dear friend, do you penetrate 
this mystery of Cecil Dreeme’s ? Tell me at 
once. He is dearer to me than a brother.” 

“ Robert,” said Churm, with grave tenderness 
of manner, look at that picture, — that tragic 
protest against a parental infamy. Have you 
ever seen those faces ? ” 

“ Dreeme womanized himself for his Cordelia. 
I have sometimes had a flitting fancy that I had 
Been people like his Lear and Goneril. They are 
types so vigorous that they seem real.” 

‘‘ They are real.” 

Who ? Churm, if you know anything of mj 
friend, do not agonize me by concealment.” 


CECIL DREEME. 


297 


j Be blind until your eyes open ! ” 

We were at my door as lie spoke. 

I Artist, sitter, and critic were moving to de[)art. 
I 1 made the apology of “ business ” for quitting 
:: them. 

! Keep at such business,’’ said Pensal, with a 

j keen glance at me, “ and you will knock off the 

i! 

other seventy-five years of your new century.” 

“ Yes,” said Towers (artist’s insight again), 
‘‘ Byng has taken a dip into counter-irritation 
and mended his paralysis of this morning.” 

‘‘ A fair stab,” says Sion, ‘‘ has made him forget 
the foul one.” 

So they took tlieir leave. 

“ Do you remember,” Churm said, as he seated 
himself in a great arm-chair of black carved oak, 
“ my fancy, when we first talked here, that this 
would be a fit chamber for a Yehmgericht ? ” 

‘‘ It was proplietic. We are to try the very 
culprit you hinted then, — Densdeth.” 

“Not in person, unless he may be lurking there 
in his dark room, to listen.” 

“ Do not speak of it ! Now that I begin to 
know more of Densdeth, the thought of that 
place sickens me.” 

“ He has harmed you, then, in my absence.” 

“ I fear a bitter treachery,” said I ; and my 
cheeks burned as 1 spoke. 

“ Is it so ? ” said Cliurm, sadly. “ i dreaded 


298 


CECIL I>REEME. 


it, and warned you as" clearly as I dared. But 
we will save Cecil Dreeme. Yes, the ruin is 
terrible, — but this last must be saved.” 

Here Locksley entered, with Towner following, 
wrapped in a great dressing-gown. It was plain, 
as Locksley had said, that the invalid Avas not 
long for this world. But yet there seemed to 
glimmer through the man’s weakness a little 
remnant of force, well-nigh quenched. It might 
still burn hot for an instant, if a blast touched 
it ; but such a flash would search out all the fuel, 
and leave only ashes when it expired. 


CHAPTER XXVl. 


TOWNER. 

The invalid peered cautiously into my room, 
halting on the threshold to inspect. 

“ Who is there ? ” said he. 

“ Nobody but Mr. Cliurm,” replied Locksley. 

Promise me that on your honor ! ” 

‘‘ Certainly. But have n’t you known me Ion 
enough to be sure that I ’m always upon honor 
Come on ! ” 

He. entered feebly, shrinking from the sound 
of his own footsteps. 

Is there nobody in those small rooms ? ” ho 
asked. “ Nobody listening ? ” 

“ Show him, Locksley, to satisfy him,” said I. 

Towner examined my bath-room, my bed- 
room, and then my lumber-room. 

“ Where does that door in the lumber-room 
open ? ” said he, tremulously. ‘‘ Into Hens- 
deth’s dark room ? ” 

Yes.” 

“ Take me down stairs again, Locksley. I 
can’t stay here.” 


tJD 


.^00 


CECIL DREEME. 


“ Why, man ! ” said I, “ the door is ])olted 
solid ; those heavy boxes are between us and 
it, and here is another door which we can close 
and lock. Three of us too to protect you. You 
are safe from Densdeth.” 

You don’t know him ! ” and Towner shud 
dered, and would have fallen. Locksley dropped 
him into an arm-chair by the stove. He seemed 
hopelessly prostrated. 

I poured him out some brandy. The antique 
flask and goblet touched his fancy. He exam- 
ined them with a pleased, childish interest, and 
glanced about the room, observing the objects, 
while he sipped his restorative with feeble lips. 

Evidently not a bad man by nature,” I 
thought. Only an impressible one, — one who 
should cry daily and hourly, ‘ Lord, deliver me 
from temptation ! ’ If his superior being and 
chosen guide had been a hero, and not a devil 
like Densdeth, lie might never have become the 
poor dastard he is.” 

“You have a pretty place here, Mr. Byng,” 
said Towner, revived by his brandy, and assum- 
ing the air of a welcome guest and patronizing 
critic. It sat strangely on him after his recent 
trepidation. The man had the small social van 
ity of connoisseurship. It was one of Dens- 
deth’s hivorite weaknesses ; he loved to make 
confident ignoramuses talk of horses, wines, pio 


CECIL DREE?.IE. 


801 


tures, subjects on which a little knowledge gen- 
erally makes a man a fool. Densdeth had no 
doubt found Towner’s ambition toward the tastes 
of a gentleman a mighty ally in mastering the 
man. 

Yes, quite a museum,” replied I, humoring 
him. Talking a little, I thought, would tran- 
quillize him for business, — the hard task of con- 
fessing himself a culprit. 

“ Very fine paintings ! ” he continued. ‘‘ I 
have a taste for such things. Not a connoisseur ! 
Only an amateur, with a smattering of knowl- 
edge ! Art refines the character wonderfully. 
I wish I had been introduced to it younger. You 
would n’t guess now, Mr. Byng, what kind of 
scenery surrounded my childhood.” 

“ No,” said I, growing impatient. What ? ” 

My father was the county jailer of Highland 
County. Instead of pictures and statues, my ear- 
liest recollections are of thieves pitching pennies 
in the jail-yard. Bad schooling for a boy, was it 
not ? I remember the first hanging I saw, as if 
it were yesterday. The man’s name was Benton 
Dulany. He robbed and killed his father. In 
his dying speech he said, that he never should 
have got religion, if it had n’t been for his errors ; 
but now ho was going straight to Abraham’s 
bosom. And tlien a man, up in an elm-tree out- 
side the jail-yard, shouted, ‘ Say, Benton ! tell 


B02 


CECIL DREEME. 


old Abe to keep some bosom fc r me ! ’ Every 
body roared, and the drop fell.” 

“ You know what you came here for, Towner,” 
said Cliurm, sternly. “ Not to babble about your 
youth.” 

“ Yes, yes,” said the invalid, uneasily. “ But 
I don’t want you to be too hard on me. I want 
you to see that I have n’t had a fair chance. No 
one ever showed me how to keep straight, and 
naturally I went crooked.” 

‘‘ If I liad not understood your character long 
ago, I should not have interfered to protect you,” 
said Churm. “ But come to the point ! ” 

You will keep me safe from Densdeth ? ” 

“ He shall never touch you.” 

His touch on my heart is what I dread, Mr. 
Churm. The first time he saw me, he laid his 
linger on the bad spot in my nature, and it 
itched to spread. I ’ve been his slave, soul and 
body, from that moment. God knows I ’ve tried 
to draw back times enough. He always waited 
until I was just beginning to regain my self- 
respect. Then he would come up to me, in his 
quiet way, and look at me with his yellow eyes, 
and smile at me with that devilisli smile, and say, 
“ Come, Towner, don’t be a prig ! Here ’s some- 
thing for you to do.” It was always a villany 
and I always did it. It would take me days to 
tell you the base things I have done to help 


CECIL DREEME. 


303 


Densdcth to liis million and his power. He has 
been the malignant curse of my life. I feel him 
now in my very soul, whispering me not to make 
confidants of people that will only hate me for 
my guilt and scorn me for my weakness.” 

‘‘Brother-in-law,” said Locksley, “you ought 
to know better than to think of hate and scorn 
when you face Mr. Churm.” 

“ I do know better. I know that those are 
onl}' devil-whispers. If I had merely been in 
general a bad man, Mr. Churm, I could endure 
your just judgment, and if you said mercy and 
pardon, I could believe that God would approve 
your sentence. But I have wronged you and 
yours. Can you forgive that ? ” 

“ Try me,” said Churm. 

“ Mr. Churm,” said the invalid, “ I have 
always lied to you about the death of Clara 
Denman.” 

“ So I supposed,” Churm said, quietly ; “ but 
do you know anything of her fate.” 

Nothing. You • may get some clew from 
/That I tell you.” 

“ Speak, then,” said Churm ; “I listen.” 

“I need not go through a long story to tell 
fou liow Densdetli mastered Mr. Denman. It is 
really a short story, and old enough. Denman 
Rad an uneasy feeling that, with all his money, 
(le was Nobody. lie fancied more money would 


304 


CECIL DREEIilE. 


make him Somebody. That was basis enough 
for Densdeth. What a child Denman was in his 
hands ! It was Densdeth who suggested, and 1 
who had to stand the odium of, that first scheme 
of Denman’s, to trample on the rights of the 
minority, and get the property oi his railroad 
company into his own hands.” 

“ I remember your share in the business,” said 
Churm. “ I suspected Densdeth’s. Poor Den- 
man ! ” 

“ Poor Denman ! ” repeated Towner, peevishly. 

I don’t see why he should have more sympathy 
than others.” 

‘‘ No more, but equal pity,” rejoined Churm. 

“ That transaction was Densdeth’s first victory 
over Denman. From that time Denman, and 
whatever he had, was Densdeth’s. If I am not 
wrong, there is another, still in that house, that 
he has harmed, if not spoiled.” 

I sat by, in agony, listening, — in sorrow first, 
to find the reconstructed fabric of my respect 
for my father’s friend and my own on the way 
to ruin, — in agony, now, at this dark allusion, 
which my heart interpreted. I sat by, listening, 
in a crushed mood, for further revelations of 
guilt and sorrow. Pitiable ! and I seemed to 
detect, even in the remorse and self-reproach of 
the pitiful object before me, a trace of vulgar 
triumph that he was not the only sinner in the 


CECIL DREEME. 


305 


w^orld, nor the only sufferer from the taint of 
sin. 

“ Densdeth led Denman on, step by step,’’ 
continued Towner, “ deeper and deeper into his 
gigantic financial schemes. You know how vain 
Denman is. He began to fancy himself Some- 
body. ‘ Bah ! ’ said Densdeth to me, ‘ the 
booby will try to walk alone presently. Then 
he will have to go on his knees to me to keep 
him up.’ And so it was. Denman devised an 
operation. A crisis came. Denman delayed ruin 
— what money-men call ruin — by a monstrous 
fraud. We had expected it, and we alone dis- 
covered it. ‘ Now,’ said Densdeth to me, ‘ I 
have got the man.’ ‘ What more do you want,’ 
said I, ‘ than you have already gained by him ? ’ 

‘ I want his daughter Clara,’ he said. ‘ She is 
the most brilliant woman in the world, — the 
only 'fit wife for me. But she will not think 
so, and I shall have to use force. Force is vid- 
gar. I don’t like it ; but no creature shall baffle 
me.’ 

“ So, to be brief, Densdeth said, ‘ Denman, 
compel your daughter to marry me, or you go 
to prison ! ’ 

“ Denman at once began to apply a father’s 
force to the young lady. As he urged her more 
and more, she spoke of appealing to you, Mr 
Churm.” 


806 


CECIL DREEME. 


Poor diild ! and I was absent 1 ” said Cluirm 

“ ‘ Ah ! ’ said Densdeth,” continued the sick 
man, “ when Denman told him of this. ‘ Here 
is business for Towner, that accomplished pen- 
man. Now, Towner 1 Letter first from Mr. 
Cimrm, in London, — ‘‘My dear Clara: I have 
heard with heartfelt satisfaction of your ap* 
proacliing marriage with your father’s friend 
and mine, Mr. Densdeth,” Ac. Letter second, — 
“ My dear Clara : It gives me great pain to 
know from your father that your mind is not 
made up as to your marriage. It is impossible 
to find a more distinguished or worthier gentle- 
man than my friend Densdeth, or one who will 
make you happier. Do not alienate me by folly 
in this important matter,” Ac. Letter third, — 
short, sharp, and cruel, — “ Clara : Your conduct 
is unwomanly and immodest. Except you are 
my friend Densdeth’s wife, I shall never write or 
speak to you again.” ’ ” 

“ You wrote such letters ! ” cried Churm, sav- 
agely, rising and tramping the room. 

“ Cut off my right hand,” said the wretclied 
man, holding out his wasted, trembling fingers. 
“ It wrote and prepared, with all tlie circum- 
stance of seal and stamp, those base forgeries.” 

“ Tliat was foul ! ” said Locksley, shrinking 
5) way. 

Don’t leave me, William,” the invalid prayed. 


CECIL DREEME. 


30 " 


/cebly. ‘‘ I was not myself. I was the hand of 
Oensdoth. Who can resist him ? All this is idle 
struggle. lie will conquer us again. He will 
clutch me, body and soul, again, and drag me 
down, down, down.” 

He burst into miserable tears. 

Churm strode about the room, with a patient 
impatient step. 

“ I have tried you, Mr. Churm,” at last the 
guilty man was able to gasp. ‘‘Can you* be 
merciful ? ” 

Churm’s face was as an angel’s, as ho came 
forward, and laid a benignant hand on Towner’? 
slioulder. “ In the name of God, I forgive you 
Yes, and I pity and will befriend you still.” 

It was an impressive scene in my antique 
chamber. Churm spoke “ like one having au- 
thority.” 

The invalid grew calmer, and presently went 
on with his story again. 

“ Those letters, I am afraid, broke the young 
lady’s heart. Her best friend had joined the 
enemy. Her father pleaded, no doubt, withouf 
concealment, his imminent ruin. A daughter 
will do much to save her father from shame. 
Tliey forced from her a kind of qualified, pro 
testing consent to think of the marriage as 3 
Dossibility. Then they treated it as a certainty. 
My treachery to the young lady soon began to 


CECIL DEEEMR 


c’08 

gnaw at my heart. Consign «iich a woman > 
Deiisdetli ! to the daily agony of a life with him ' 
Little as I knew her, I felt that she was aix 
exceptional soul, worthy of all tender loyalt} 
from all men. I must do something to repaii 
my wrong to her. I must at least inform her 
of the forgeries. I was too weak-spirited to do 
it myself. I called in a woman to help me. 

She was another that Densdeth had spoilt. 
She hated and dreaded him as mucli as I did. 
She naturally resented his marriage to another 
woman. I sent her to see Clara Denman. Dens- 
deth found it out, and stopped it. He finds out 
everything, sooner or later He suspected me 
of an attempt to revolt from his dominion. He 
suspected me of instigating the young womar 
to show herself to his future wife. He made 
me stand by and listen, while, in his cool, cruel 
way, he sneered the poor girl into utter despair. 
She went off and drowned herself.” 

‘‘ Ah ! ” cried Churm, “ it was she whose body 
was found, — she, and not r^y dear child.” 

“ It was she,” replied Towner. “ Nobody 
cared for her, or missed her. She was not 
unlike Miss Denman in pe’:*son. The disappear- 
ance of a young lady of fashion had made a 
noise. A great reward wa? offered. Scores of 
people identified the body. It had been greatly 
injured by the chances of frowning.” 


CECIL DREEME. 


309 


“ Did Denman believe it to be liis daughter’s?” 

‘‘ Entire, j It was the easiest solution. And 
no doubt lie felt more at peace to suppose her 
dead tjiaii living, and likely to return and re 
proach him with his tyranny.” 

And Doiisdeth ? ” 

“ lie did at first. He did not believe that any 
woman could have eluded the strict and instant 
search he instituted and conducted all over the 
country. I myself cannot believe that she es- 
caped alive.” 

‘‘ Perhaps Densdeth searched too far away 
from home,” ^aid Churm, glancing at me. 

He went to Europe for that purpose. When 
he missed the real drowned woman, he came 
to me, and charged me with aiding Miss Den- 
man to escape, and substituting the body. He 
soon discovered tliat I knew nothing of it. 
‘ Towner,’ said he, ‘ I am convinced that Miss 
Denman, my future wife, is alive. She fancies 
she is free from me. Bah ! Did you ever know 
any one baffle my pursuit? She shall not. 1 
want her, and must have her, — beautiful, un- 
tamed creature ! but silly, and not willing to 
adore me, as her sex does ! In fact, slie got 
idle fancies in her head at last, and was really 
rude. She talked about abhorrence. Abhor- 
rence of me ! She said our marriage would oe 
an infamy, for reasons she would not soil hei 


310 


CECIL DREEME. 


tongue to give. She actually faced me, anJ 
said that. She said it, facing me, looking mo 
straight in the eyes, not sobbing off in a corner, 
as most women would have done. It was 
splendid ! Fine tragedy 1 and real too. Nothing 
ever entertained me so much. I would rather 
have her point at me, and call me villain, thai 
any other woman fondle me, — that I have had 
enough of. 0 yes, she is alive, and I must have 
her. What a fool I was to fancy for a moment 
that such a being would drown herself, or be 
drowned by an accident, — quite unworthy of 
my intelligence, such a belief! I have a clew 
now. I have no doubt she has gone off to 
Europe, disguised as a man. She cannot elude 
me there. There or here, I will find her. 1 
must have some more scenes with her. I should 
like to have one every day. Everything bores 
me now. I hunger to see again the magnifi- 
cent scorn with which she repelled me wlieii 
she fancied she had reason to. I want to see 
that loathing recoil from my touch. Ah ! noth- 
ing like it 1 I should like to trample on her 
moral sense every day. If I could only sully 
her, and make her hate herself as she does me, 
and then stand by to watch her convulsions 
of self-contempt, — that would be worth living 
for. Perhaps I can manage even that. Wlio 
knows ? But I must get her in hand first. My 


CECIL DREEME. 


311 


cue of course is that she is mad. The simplest 
methods are the best. Let me once have her 
in some iininqiiisitive madhouse, like Huffmire'a 
here at Busliley, and something can be done. 
At least I can put her in a straiglit-jacket, aim 
see her chafe, or sit, too proud to chafe, facing her 
fate with those great eyes, solemn and passion^ 
ate. Denman will back me in whatever I do. 
If it gives you any satisfaction, Towner, to know 
that there is a wretcheder scrub than you, Den- 
man is the man. I love to joke him about 
tlie State’s prison, and make him grovel and 
implore. He is delightfully base. He will swear 
his daughter into a madhouse, and keep her 
there lialf a century, if I will only let him live 
in his house, and be pointed at as the great 
Denman. Pah ! ’ ” 

Towner sank back in his chair, exhausted. It 
had cost him a giant effort to be free from liis 
ancient allegiance to his fiend. 

We three sat silent a moment, appalled by 
the depth of evil revealed to us in one human 
lieart. 

In this pause all the events and scenes of 
my life in Chrysalis drifted across my mind, 
and all my history for the past three montlis, 
culminating in last niglit’s horror and to-day’s 
agony, passed before me. Again I saw, as in 
fi. picture, Emma Denman standi»4,?, a slight, 


312 


CECIL DREEME. 


elegant figure in mourning, in the dimly lighted 
hall of ilio stately house. Again I marked on 
her pale face the deepening look of despair and 
piliiess self-abhorrence. Again I felt the bliglit- 
ing touch of her cold hand. Again there smote 
me the same throb of anguish I had perceived 
vvlien I entered Cecil Dreeme’s chamber and 
round him fled. 

And Densdeth was in all this. ' The thought 
cowed me. I was ready to say, with Towner, 
“ Why struggle vainly any more with this de- 
mon ? ” 

Even as I uttered this hopeless cry within 
my soul, there came a quick step along the 
coriinor, and a knock at my door. 


\ 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


KALEIGH’S REVOLT. 

At this sound Towner half raised himself from 
the arm-chair, where he sat, cowering. ‘‘ Don’t 
let him in ! Don’t let anybody in ! ” he breathed, 
in an alarmed whisper. 

The knock was repeated urgently. I stepped 
to the door and opened it a crack. Raleigh was 
without, — the man about town, of noble instincts 
and unworthy courses, who has already passed 
across these pages. 

Pray, drop in again, Raleigh,” said I ; “ 1 
have some people here on business.” 

“ I must see you now. It may be life and 
death.” 

“ To whom ? ” I asked, eagerly. He too had 
been a friend of Densdeth’s. He might have 
knowledge of these mysteries. 

“ To one worth saving.” 

I observed him more particularly. All his 
usual nonchalance had departed. He was pale 
and anxious ; but withal, his face expressed his 
better self, the nobler man I had always recog 
iiized in him. 


14 


814 


CFXIL DREEME. 


lYliat is it ? ” said I, stepp.’ng out into the 
corridor. 

“ Not licre ! ” said Raleigh in a wliisper. And 
lie pointed to ilie door of Densdeth’s dark room. 

“ What ? ” I also whispered, with an irreiires- 
sible dread stealing over me, “ Densdeth again ! ’* 

“ Come in then,” 1 continued ; “ we are ah 
ready trying and condemning him.” 

“ Who are these?” said Raleigh, bowing slightlj 
to Churm, and pointing to Locksley and Towner 
The latter sat with his face covered liy his hands. 

“ Foes of Densdeth, both ! Sufferers by him ! ’ 

“ ^Ir. Churm,” said Raleigh, “I know you do 
not trust me much. But I came here to find 
you and Byng. Meeting you saves precious time. 
I have wasted hours already, struggling in my 
lieart to throw off the base empire of Densdeth. 
I have done it. I am free of him forever. 1 
can speak. I have seen your ward, Clara Den- 
man ! ” 

“ Speak ! speak ! ” cried Churm, seizing his 
arm. 

“ Alive, and in danger ! I was riding home 
tliis morning before dawn, from Bushley, — never 
mind on what unworthy errand I had been. 
Goi.ig down a hill, my horse slipped on the ice, 
and fell liadly. I was getting him on his legs 
again, when a carriage came slowly climbing up 
the slope beside me. You know what a niglit it 


CECIL DREEME. 


315 


svas, --stormy, with bursts of moonlight. There 
was I'ght enough to give me a view of tiie 
in the carriage. Two women, one a hag I wen 
know, the other veiled. Two men, Densdeth 
and that black rascal, his servant. I knew tliem. 
They could not recognize me kneeling behiiid 
my horse. ‘ Mischief ! ’ I thought. It was none* 
of my business, but I got my horse up, and fol- 
lowed. Do you know Huffmire’s Asylum ? ” 

“ Locksley ! ” said Churm, “ quick ! Run to 
my stable, and have the bays put to the double 
wagon ! Quick, now ! Have them here in five 
minutes ! ” 

Locksley hurried off. 

“Right!” said Raleigh, “you understand me. 
Yes, Densdeth had Clara Denman in that car- 
riage.” 

“ My poor child I ” said Churm. “ Her inno- 
cent life bears all the burden of others’ sins.” 

“ I rode after the carriage until I saw it stop 
at Hiiffmire’s gate. Then I dismounted, let my 
horse go, and ran up in the shelter of some cedars 
by the road-side. I knew that Hiiffmire’s Insane 
Asylum is no better than a private prison foi 
whoever dares to use it. No one was stirring at 
that early hour, and it was some time before the 
bell was answered. At last, Huffmire himself 
came to the gate. Densdetli got out to parlej 
. witli him. While they talked, the veiled ladj 


816 


CHCTL i>‘iJSEME. 


managed, by a rapid movement with her tied 
hands, to strike aside her veil and look out. 1 
saw her. I cnniiot be deceived. It was Clara 
Denman I ” 

“ Is Locksley never coming with those horses ? ’’ 
muttered Churm. 

“ It was she, strangely dressed, altered, and 
pale, but firm and resolute as ever. I had bul 
a glimpse. The hag and Densdeth’s servant 
dragged her back. Huffmire undid the gate. 
They drove in. I caught my horse and rode 
off.” 

Why did you not tear lier away from that 
villain ? ” said Churm, fiercely. 

“ Mr. Cliurm, hear me through ! I said to 
myself, ‘ This is none of my business. Clara 
Denman, whom the world thought dead, has 
come to light, mad, and Densdeth, tlie friend of 
the family, her betrothed, lias very naturally 
been selected to put her into a madhouse.’ ” 

“ But the hour, the place ! And Densdeth ! ” 

“ Yes ; these excited my suspicions. I remem- 
bered the impression that Miss Denman had 
committed suicide rather than be forced into' a 
marriage with Densdeth. Intimate as I have 
been with him, I can comprehend how to a 
nature like hers he would be a horror.” 

“ But,” said I, tliis seems almost iiicrcdi 
ble, thk audacious ;’^^nctioii of a young lady.” 


31 ? 


CECIL DREE^ilE. 

‘^Densdeth knew that she had no friends,” said 
Churm, bitterly. He knew that tlie manner 
and place of her hiding would favor his cliarge.” 

‘‘ It is audacious,” said Raleigh, “ and so is 
Densdeth. Success has made the man overween- 
ing. If it is true that Clara Denman baffled him 
for a time, I believe she is the only one, woman 
or man, who has done so, when he had fairly 
tried to conquer. Who knows but he feels that, 
once beaten, his prestige to liimsclf is gone ? He 
no doubt considers himself safe against Denman, 
and supposes, too, that the lady’s flight and con- 
cealment have put her out of the pale of society.” 

But what docs he intend?” said I, looking at 
them botli by turns. 

‘‘Will Lockslcy never .come?” said Churm, 
striding to the window. “ Towner has told uo 
what lie intends.” 

“ Basely, I fear,” replied Raleigh. “ At least 
to compel licr to a hateful marriage, if no worse. 
At least to have her where he can insult and 
scoff at licr, and beat down her resistance. He 
means to master her, soul and body, and take 
so-me cruel revenge, such as only a fiend could 
devise.” 

“ Your eyes seem to be opened, Mr. Raleigh,” 
said Churm, “ to the character of your bosons 
friend.” 

“ They are opened, thank God ! It has cost 


818 


CECIL DREEME. 


me a great and bitter struggle, this day, to teat 
that man out of my heart, to overcome my }»ride 
and inertfa, and come and tell you, Mr. Churm, 
that I miserably despise myself; yes, and to say 
that I need the help and countenance of men 
like you to aid me to be a true man again, — to 
abandon Densdeth, and set myself forever against 
liim and all his kind.” 

“ Is that your purpose ? My poor help you 
shall liave,” said Churm. 

“ Yes ; I have been all, day resisting my im- 
pulse to come and betray the man, — if this is 
treachery. But the remembrance of Miss Den- 
man’s pale face, as she looked friendlessly out of 
the carriage, has been shaming me all day, com- 
manding me to break my fealty to sin, and obey 
my manly nature, — what there is left of it. I 
have obeyed at last.” 

“ You have done well and honorably, Mr. 
Raleigh,” said Churm, grasping his hand. 

“Yes,” said I, “ Raleigii, I knew it was in 
you, and would come out.” 

“ Thank you, Byng. Thank you, Mi’ Ch" ir^,” 
said he, gravely. “ And now to help Tm lady ! 
What are you going to do ? ” 

“ I am going co driv*^ sti'^.ight to Muffmire’e^ 
anci demand her.” 

“ Will he give lier up wiBiout legal proceed 


CECIL DREExME. 


319 


Probably not. I must take them, in time. 
I am convinced that Denman does not know of 
this. He still believes his daughter dead. But 
he would act with Densdeth. I mean to-day to 
let Huffinire know that the lady has friends, who 
are not to be trifled with, and that he is held 
responsible for her safety. Perhaps I shall set 
Byng sentinel over the house, to see that she is 
not spirited away again.” 

“ Are we to be rough or smooth ? ” said I. 

Do we want arms ? ” 

And I glanced toward the table, where, at 
Towner’s elbow, lay a long, keen, antique dag- 
ger, out of Stillfleet’s collection. Its present 
peaceful use was to cut the leaves of novels, or 
the paper edges of a cigar-box. 

No arms ! ” said Churm, following my eye. 
‘‘ We might meet a wrong-doer, and be tempted 
to anticipate the vengeance of God.” 

I had forgotten, and did forget, in this excite- 
ment, to ask Towner what use Densdeth made 
of his dark room. 


CHAPTER XXYIII. 


DENSDETH’S FAREWELL. 

‘‘ The carriage is here,” said Locksley, at the 
door. Wliat with indignation at Densdeth, the 
janitor had got far beyond his usual bristly por- 
cupine condition. He presented a spiky aspect. 
I hope no boy of the Chrysalids tried a tussle 
with liim that day. 

‘‘ Will you allow me to join your party ? ” 
Raleigh asked. “ I may make myself of use.” 

‘‘ Certainly. Well, Towner, we leave you with 
friend Locksley. But, man ! ” continued Churm, 
in surprise, ‘‘ what have you been doing to your- 
self?” 

Well he might be astonished ! Towner had 
risen, and was standing erect and vigorous. His 
manner was eager, almost to wildness. His lit- 
tle, unmeaning eyes were open wide, as if he 
saw something that made him young and un- 
wrinklcd again. There was a hot, hectic spot in 
his cheek, just now mere pale parchment. 

‘‘ Embers ablaze at last ! ” thought I. ‘‘ Tlie 
man has struck a blow for freedom, and now he 


CECIL DREEME. 


821 


begins to hunger for vengeance. He has shaken 
off Densdcth ; he looks as if he could turn and 
tear him.” 

“ I should like to go with you, Mr. Churm, if 
you please,” said Towner. ‘‘ The drive will do 
me good. Huffmire knows me. He might open 
his doors to me, as Densdeth’s friend, when he 
would exclude you.” 

‘‘ Very well,” said Churm ; “ come, if you feel 
strong enough. But you must let Locksley fit 
you out with clothes.” 

Towner hurried off with the janitor. He had 
skulked into my room, at the beginning of the 
interview, like a condemned spy ; he moved 
away like a brave and a victor. 

“ I take him,” said Churm, because I doubt 
bis resolution. The old allegiance might prove 
too strong. He might confess to Hensdeth that 
he had confessed to us. That would bafile us. 
We must not lose sight of him.” 

“ Churm,” said I, “ I go with you, of course, 
tlirough thick and thin. But Cecil Hreeme, — 1 
feel that my first duty is to seek and succor him. 
I long to aid the young lady. But she is a stran- 
ger, and has you. Hreeme is part of my heart, 
and lias no one.” 

“ Patience, Robert ! One thing at a time. Let 
us but run Densdetli to earth, and I dare premise 
you will find your friend. You for yours, and J 

14* u 


322 


CECIL DREEME. 


for mine, and both against the common foe, W0 
must prevail. If I doubted one moment of my 
child’s safety, I should not be searching for her 
now, but cliasing him.” 

‘‘ Not to impose upon him the mild sentence 
you spoke of long ago ? Not to condemn him to 
bless as many lives as he has cursed ? ” 

I fear it is too late for such gentle treatment. 
Do you suppose, Towner, a life so cursed as his 
will be contented with that indirect application 
of the lex talionis ? ■ No ; Densdeth must be 
stopped and punished.” 

The boys of Chrysalis, the College, were swarm- 
ing in the corridor and upon the staircase under 
the plaster fan-tracery as we passed. Little 
enough of the honey of learning had they sucked 
from their mullein-stalk of a professor that day, 
and they buzzed indignantly or bumbled surlily 
about. Far different was the kind of education 
and discipline I was getting in the same cloisters. 
The great book of sin and sorrow, tliat time- 
worn, tear-marked, blood-stained volume, had 
been opened to me here, and I was reading it 
by the liglit of my own experience. And as I 
read, I felt that tlicre were pages awaiting my 
record, — pages that I could already fill, and 
others that the future would sternly teach me 
to fill, before my story ended. 

At the great western door we found Ch arm’s 


CECIL DREEME. 828 

drag, with the bays. Towner came out, muffled 
in an old blue camlet cloak, — a garment ihat 
tlic moths had disdained for a score of years, when 
in Locksley’s prosperity they liad choice pas- 
turage of broadcloth to ^raze over. This queer 
figure and the elegant Raleigh took the back 
seat. Ghurm and I were on the box. 

Churm’s bays are not known to the Racing 
Calendar ; but there are teams of renown that 
always pull up on the road, when they hear the 
accurate cadence of their coming hoofs, and 
recognize Churm’s peculiar whistle as he signals. 

More seconds out of that mile ! ” We drove 
fast through town to the nearest ferry, crossed, 
and presently, off the stones across the water, 
bowded along the Bushley turnpike, as merrily as 
if we were on our way to a country wedding fes- 
tival. Little was said. We knew the past, and 
that was too painful to talk of. We did not 
know the future, and could not interpret its 
omens. 

From time to time I turned to glance at 
Towmer. He sat erect and alert, with cheeks 
burning and eyes aflame. Tlie inner fire had 
kindled up his manhood again. ‘‘ I would not 
give much for Densdeth’s life,” thought I, “ if 
Ids late serf should meet him now. The man 
is capable of one spasm of vengeance. He 
looks, w'ith his twitching face and uneasy fill- 


324 


CECIL DREEME. 


gers, as if he could rend the being tliat has 
debased him, and then die.” 

So we drove on, mile after mile, in the chilly 
March afternoon, and at last pulled up at a 
door, in a white stuccoed wall, — a whited wal], 
edging the road like a bank of stale snow. 
Witliin we could see an ugly, dismal house, 
equally stuccoed white, peering suspiciously at 
us over the top of the enclosure, from its sin 
ister grated windows of the upper story. 

A boy was walking up and down the road 
at a little distance a fine black horse, all in 
a lather with hard riding, and cut with the 
spurs. The animal plunged about furiously, 
almost dragging the lad off his feet. 

“ You will see Huffmire, Towner,” said Churm, 
“ and tell him that I want to talk with him.” 

‘‘ Yes,” cried Towner, eagerly, “ let me man- 
age it ! ” 

He shook off his cloak, sprang down Avith 
energetic step, and rang the bell. A man looked 
through a small shutter in the door, and asked 
his business, gruffly enough. 

“ Tell Dr. Iluffmire that Mr. Towner wishes 
to see him.” 

The porter presently returned, and said that 
Dr. Huffmire would see the gentleman, alone. 

“ Huffmire will know my name. Send him 
out here to me, Towner, if he will come ; if 


CECIL DREEME. 


325 


not, do you make the necessary inquiries,” said 
Cliiirm. 

Towner passed in. The porter closed the 
filter door upon him, and then looked through 
tlic shutter at us, with a truculent stare, as if 
he were accustomed to inquisitive visitors, ai:d 
liked to baffle them. He had but one eye, and 
his effect, as he grinned through the square port- 
liole in the gate, was singularly Cyclopean and 
ogre-ish. Ho probably regarded men merely as 
food, sooner or later, for insane asylums, — as 
morsels to be quietly swallowed or forcibly choked 
down by the jaws of Retreats. 

“ What ! ” whispered Raleigh to me, as the 
boy led the snorting and curvetting black horse 
by us. “ That fellow at the eye-hole magnet- 
ized me at first. I did not notice that horse. 
Do you know it ? ” 

“ No,” said I. I have never seen him. A 
splendid fellow ! His rider must have been in 
hot haste to get here. Perhaps some errand 
like our own ! ” 

‘‘ Dcnsdeth,” again whispered Raleigh, Dens- 
deth told me he had been looking at a new black 
horse.” 

We glanced at each other. All felt that Dens- 
deth’s appearance here, at this moment, might 
be harmful. Churm’s name brought Huffmire 
speedily to the door. Churm, the philanthropist, 


826 CECIL dreemp:. 

was too powerful a man to offend. Huifmiie 
opened the door, and stood just Avithin, defend 
ing the entrance. He was a large man, Avith 
a large face, — large in every feature, and ex- 
aggerated where for proportion it should have 
been small. He suffered under a general rush 
of coarseness to the face. He had a rush of 
lymphatic puffmess to the cheeks, a rush of 
blubber to the lips, a rush of gristle to his 
clumsy nose, a rusli of lappel to the ears, 
a rush of dewlap to the throat. A disgusting 
person, — the very type of man for a vulgar 
tyrant. His straight black hair Avas brushed 
back and combed behind the ears. He Avas 
in the sheep’s clothing of a deacon. 

“ You have a young lady here, lately arrived ? ” 
said Churm, bowing slightly, in return to the 
other’s cringing rcA^erence. 

I have seAxral, sir. Neither youth nor beau- 
ty is exempt, alas ! from the dreadful curse of 
insanity, which I devote myself, in my hum- 
ble Avay, to eradicate. To e-rad-i-catc,” he re- 
peated, dAvelling on the syllables of his word, 
as if he were tugging' Avith brute force, at some- 
thing that came up hard, — as if madness Avere 
a stump, and he Avere a cogwheel machine ex- 
tracting it. 

“ I Avish to knoAV,” said Churm, in his briefesr 
and sternest manner, “ if a young lady named 
Denman Avas lirought here yesterday.” 


CECIL DREEME. 


327 


Denman, sir ! No sir. I am liappy to be 
able to state to you, sir, that there is no un- 
fortunate of tliat name among my patients, — ■ 
no one of that name, — I rejoice to satisfy you.” 

“ I suppose you know who I am,” said Cliurm. 
I saw his fingers clutch his whip-handle. 

A rush of oiliiiess seemed to suffuse the man’s 
coarse face. ‘‘ It is the well-known Mr. Churm,” 
said he. ‘‘ The fame of his benevolence is co- 
extensive with our country, sir. Who does not 
love him ? — the friend of the widow and the 
orphan ! I am proud, sir, to make your ac- 
quaintance. This is a privilege, indeed, — indeed, 
a most in-es-ti-ma-hle pri-vile-age.” 

“ Do you think me a safe man to lie to ? ” said 
Churm, abruptly. 

“ I confess that I do not take your meaning, 
sir,” said Huffmire, in the same soft manner, hut 
stepping hack a little. 

‘‘ Do you think it safe to lie to me ? ” 

“ I, sir ! lie, sir ! ” stammered Huffmire. Tlie 
oiliness seemed to coagulate in his muddy skin, 
and with his alarm his complexion took the tex- 
ture and color of soggy leather. 

“ Yes ; the lady is here. I wish to see her.” 

As Churm was silent, looking sternly at tlio 
[)rctciided doctor, there rose suddenly within the 
building a strange and liorrihle cry. 

A strange and horrible cry ! Two voices min 


828 


CECIL DREEME. 


glcd in its discord. One was a well-know l 
mocking tone, now smitten with despair ; and 
yet the change that gave it its horror was so 
slight, that I doubted if the old mockery had not 
all the while been despair, suppressed and dis- 
guised. The otlier voice, mingling with this, 
rising with it up into silence that grew stiller as 
they climbed, and then, disentangling itself, over- 
topping its companion, and beating it slowly down 
until it had ceased to be, — this other voice was 
like the exulting cry of one defeated and tram- 
pled under foot, who yet has saved a stab for his 
victor. 

They had met — Towner and Densdeth ! 

We three sprang from the carriage, thrust 
aside the Doctor, and, following our memories of 
tlie dead sound for a clew, ran across the court 
and through a half-open door into the hall of the 
Asylum. 

All was still within. The air was thick with 
the curdling horror that had poured into it. We 
paused an instant to listen. 

A little muffled moan crept feebly forth from a 
room on the left. It hardly reached us, so faint 
it was. It crept forth, and seemed to perish at 
our feet, like a hopeless suppliant. We entered 
the room. It was a shabby parlor, meanly fur- 
nished. The stained old paper on the walls was 
covered with Arcadian groups of youths and 


CECIL DREEME 


829 


maidens, dancing to the sound of a pipe played 
by a slieplierd, who sat upon a broken column 
under a palm. On tlie floor was a tawdry carpet, 
all beflowercd and befruitcd, — such a meretri- 
cious blur of colors as a hotel offers for vulgar 
feet to tread upon. So much I now perceive 
that I marked in that mean reception-room. But 
1 did not note it then. 

For there, among the tawdry flowers of tlie 
carpet, lay Densdeth, — dead, or dying of a 
deadly wound. The long, keen, antique dagger 
I had noticed lying peacefully on my table was 
upon tlie floor. Its office had found it at last, 
and the signet of a new blood-stain was stamped 
upon its blade, among tokens of an old habit ol 
murder, latent for ages. 

Beside the wounded man sat Towner. His 
spasm was over. The freed serf had slain his 
tyrant. All his life had been crowded into that 
one moment of frenzy. He sat pale and droop- 
ing, and there was a desolate sorrow in his face, 
as if his hate for his master had been as needful 
to him as a love. 

“ I could not help it,” said Towner, in a dreary 
whisper. He came to me while I was waiting 
here. He told Huffinirc to send you off, and 
leave me to him. And then he stood over me, 
and told me, with his old sneer, that I belonged tc 
him, body cand soul. He said I must obey him- 


830 


CECIL DREEME. 


He sitid he had work for me now, — jnst siutt 
mean villany as I was made for. I felt that ii; 
anotlier instant I should be his again. I oiil}’ 
made one spring at him. How came I by tbai 
dao-o-er? I never saw it until I found it in my 
liand, at his heart. Is he dead ? No. 1 am 
dying. Shall I be safe from him hereafter ? I 
liave n’t had a fair chance in this world. What 
could a man do better — born in a jail ? ” 

Towner drooped slowly down as he spoke. 
He ended, and his defeated life passed away from 
tliat worn-out body, the comrade of its igno- 
miny 

I raised Densdeth’s liead. The strange fasci- 
nation of his face became doubly subtle, as he 
seemed still to gaze at me with closed eyelids, 
like a statue’s. I felt that, if those cold feline 
eyes should open and again turn their inquisition 
inward upon my soul, devilish passions would 
quicken there anew. I shuddered to perceive 
the lurking devil in me, slumbering lightly, and 
ready to stir whenever he knew a comrade was 
near. 

“ Spare me, Densdeth ! ” I rather thought than 
spoke; but with tlie thought an eflluence must 
have passed from me to him. 

His eyes opened. The look of treachery and 
triumph was gone. He murmured somctliing. 
VVliat we could not hear. But all the mocker}' 


CECIl. DKKEMK. 


381 


of liis voice had departed when in that dying 
scream it avowed itself despair. The tones we 
caught were sweet and childlike. 

With this effort blood gushed again from his 
murderous wound. He, too, drooped away and 
died. The soul that had had no other view of 
brother men than through the eyes of a beast 
of prey, fled away to find its new tenement. 
His face settled into marble calm and beauty. I 
parted the black hair from his forehead. 

There was the man whom I should have loved 
if I had not hated, dead at last, with this vulgar 
death. Only a single stab from another, and my 
warfare with him was done. I felt a strange 
sense of indolence overcome me. Was my busi- 
ness in life over, now that I had no longer to 
struggle with him daily ? Had he strengthened 
me ? Had he weakened me ? Should I have 
prevailed against him, or would he have finally 
masfered me, if this chance, this Providence, of 
death liad not come between us ? 

I looked up, and found Churm studying the 
dead man. 

Can it be ? ’’ said I, “ that a soul perilous to 
all truth and purity, a merciless tempter, a being 
who to every other man was the personification 
of that man’s own worst ideal of himself, — can 
it ))C that such an unrestful spirit has dwelt 
within this quiet form? What was Jie ? Foi 


332 


CECIL DREEME. 


what purpose enters such a disturbing force into 
the orderly world of God ? ” 

“ That is the ancient mystery,” said Churm, 
solemnly. 

‘‘ Can it never be solved in this world ? ” 

“ It is not yet solved to you ? Tlien you must 
wait for years of deeper thought, or some moment 
of more fiery trial.” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


DREEME HIS OWN INTERPRETER. 

We left the' dead, dead. 

“ Where is Huffmire ? ” Chiirm asked. 

A sound of galloping hoofs answered. We 
saw him from the window, flying on Densdeth’s 
horse. Death in his house by violence meant 
investigation j and that he did not dare encounter. 
He was off, and so escaped justice for a time. 

The villanous-looking porter came cringing up 
to Churm. 

‘‘ You was asking about a lady,” said he. 

‘‘ Yes. What of her ? ” 

“ With a pale face, large eyes, and short, crisp 
olack hair, what that dead man brought here at 
daybreak yesterday ? ” 

“ The same.” 

“ Murdoch ’s got her locked up and tied.” 

“ Murdoch ! ” cried Raleigh. “That ’s the hell- 
cat I saw in the carriage.” 

“ Quick,” said Churm, “ take us there ! ” 

1 picked up my dagger, and wiped off the 
blood ; but the new stain had thickened the 
ancient rust. 


884 


CECIL DREEME. 


The porter led the way up-stairs, and knocked 
at a closed door. 

“ Who is there ? ” said a voice. 

“ Me, Patrick, the porter. Open ! ’’ 

What do you want ? ” 

“ To come in.” 

“ Go about your business ! ” 

“ I will,” said the man, turning to us, with a 
grin. He felt that we were the persons to be 
propitiated. He put his knee against the door, 
and, after a struggle and a thrust, the bolt gave 
way. 

A large, gipsy-like woman stood holding back 
the door. We pushed her aside, and sprang in. 

“ Cecil Dreeme ! ” I cried, ‘‘ God be thanked ! ” 

And there, indeed, was my friend. He was 
sitting bound in a great chair, — bound and 
helpless, but still steady and self-possessed. He 
Avas covered with some confining drapery. 

He gave an eager cry as he saw me. 

I leaped forward and cut him free with my 
dagger. Better business for the blade than mur- 
der ! 

He rose and clung to me, with a womanish 
gesture, weeping on my shoulder. 

“ My child ! ” cried Churm, shaking otf the 
Murdoch creature, and leaving her to claw the 
porter. 

I felt a strange thrill aiid a new suspicion go 


CECIL DREEME. 


835 


tingling tlii.’ough me as T heard these words 
How blind I had been ! 

Cecil Dreeme still clung to me, and murmured, 

Save me from them, Robert ! Save me from 
them all ! ” 

“ Clara, my daughter,” said Churm, “ you 
need not turn from me. I have been belied to 
you. Could I change ? They forged the lettera 
that made you distrust me.” 

Is it so, Robert ? ” said the figure by my 
heart. 

“ Yes, Cecil, Churm is true as faith.” 

There needed no further interpretation. Clara 
Denman and Cecil Dreeme were one. This 
strange mystery was clear as day. 

She withdrew^ from me, and as her eyes met 
mine, a woman’s blush signalled the change in 
our relations. Yes; this friend closer than a 
brotlier was a w^oman. 

“ My daugliter ! ” said Churm, embracing her 
tenderlv, like a father. 

I perceived that this womanish drapery had 
been flung upon her by her captors, to restore her 
to her sex and its responsibilities. 

“ Densdetli ? ” she asked, with a shudder. 

“ Dead ! God forgive liim ! ” answered Churm. 

“ Let us go,” she said. “ Another hour in this 
[dace with that foul woman would have mad- 
dened me.” 


836 


CECIL DREEME. 


She passed from the room with Cluirm. 

Raleigh stepped forward. ‘‘ You have found 
a friend,” said he to me ; “ you will both gc 
with her. Leave me to see to tliis business of 
the dead men and this prison-house.” 

“ Thank you, Raleigh,” said I ; we will go 
with her, and relieve you as soon as she is safe, 
after all these terrors.” 

“ A brave woman ! ” he said. I am happy 
that I have had some slight share in her rescue.” 

“ The whole, Raleigh.” 

There he lies ! ” whispered Churm, as we 
passed the door where the dead men were. 

Cecil Dreeme glanced uneasily at me and at 
the dagger I still carried. 

“ No,” said I, interpreting the look ; not by 
me ! not by any of us ! An old vengeance has 
overtaken him. Towner killed him, and also lies 
there dead.” 

Towner ! ” said Dreeme, ‘‘ he was anotlier 
bad spirit of the baser sort to my father. Both 
dead ! Densdeth dead ! May he be forgiven fur 
all the cruel harm he has done to me and mine ! ” 

Cecil and I took the back seat of the carriage. 
I wrapped her up in Towner’s great cloak, and 
drew the hood over her head. 

She smiled as I did these little offices, and 
shrank away a little. 

Covered with the hood and draped with the 


CECIL DREEME. 


337 


great cloak, she seemed a very woman. Eacli 
of ns felt the awkwardness of our position. 

We shall not he friends the less, Mr. Byng,’’ 
said she. 

“ Friends, Cecil ! ’’ 

I took the hand she offered, and kept it. For 
a moment I forgot old sorrows and present anxie- 
ties in this strange new joy. 

Chiirm had now got his bays into their pace. 
He turned and looked with his large benignancy 
of expression upon his daughter. Then tears 
came into his eyes. 

“ I have missed you, longed for you, yearned 
after you, sought you bitterly,” he said. 

Not more bitterly than I sorrowed when I 
saw in your own hand that you had taken the 
side of that base man, and abandoned me.” 

“ My brave child ! My poor, forlorn girl ! ” 

“ Never forlorn after Mr. Byng found me,” 
said Cecil. And when I looked at her she flushed 
again. ‘‘He has been a brother, — yes, closer 
than a brother to me. I should have died, body 
and soul, starved and worn out for lack of aftcc- 
tion and sympathy, unless he had come, sent by 
God.” 

‘‘And I, Cecil, — all my better nature would 
have perished utterly in the strange temptations 
of these weeks, except for your sweet influence 
You have saved me.” 


15 


V 


388 


CECIL DKEEME. 


‘‘We have much to tell each other, my iihild,^ 
said Chiirin. 

“ Much. But I owe it to Mr. Byng to de- 
scribe at once how 1 came to be under false 
colors, unsexcd.” 

“Never unsexed, Cecil! I could not explain 
to myself in what your society differed from 
every other. It was in this. In the guise of 
man, you were thorough woman still. I talked 
to you and thought of you, although I was not 
conscious of it, as man does to woman only. I 
opened my heart to you as one does to — a sis- 
ter, a sweet sister.” 

“ Well,” said Dreeme, “ I must tell you my 
little -history briefly, to justify myself. I cannot 
make it a merry one. Much of it you know ; 
more perhaps you infer. You can understand 
the struggle in my heart when my father said to 
me, ‘ Marry this man, or I am brought to shame.’ 
How could I so desecrate my womanhood ? Hero 
was one whom for himself I disliked and dis- 
trusted, and who was so base, having failed to 
gain my love, as to use force — moral force — 
and degrade my father to be- the accomplice of 
his tyranny.” 

Dreeme — for so I must call him — spoke with 
a passionate indignation. I could comprehend 
the impression those ardent moods had made 
upon Densdcth’s intellect. It was, indeed, spleii- 


CECIL DREEME. 


339 


did tragedy to liear him speak, — splendid, if the 
tragedy had not been all too real, and yet un- 
finished. 

“ Dislike and distrust, repugnance against him 
for his plot, — had you no other feeling toward 
Densdeth ? ” Churm asked. 

‘‘ These and the instinctive recoil of a pure 
being from a foul being. Only tiiese at first. 
Then came the insurrection of all my woman’s 
heart against his corruption of my father’s nature 
and compulsion of me through him. Mr. Dens- 
deth treated me witli personal respect. He left 
the ugly work to my father, his slave. Ah, my 
poor father ! ” 

‘‘ And your sister, — what part did she take ? ” 
My sister ! ” said Cecil Dreeme, with burning 
cheeks, and as she spoke her liand grasped mine 
convulsively. ‘‘ My sister kept aloof. She offered 
me no sympathy. She repelled my confidence, 
as she had long done. I had no friend to whom 
I could say, ‘ Save me from him who should love 
me dearest, who should brave whatever pang 
tliere is in public shame, rather than degrade 
Ids daughter to such ignominy.’ All me ! that 
Heaven should have so heaped misery upon me ! 
And the worst to come ! — the worst — the worst 
to come ! ” 

‘‘ And I was across seas ! ” said Churm, bit- 
terly. 


340 CECIL DREEME. 

‘‘ I had said to my father at the beginning, ^ If 
Mr. Churin were here, you would not dare sacri 
lice me.’ ‘ Mr. Churin,’ he replied, ‘ would have 
no sympathy for this freak of rejecting a man 
so distinguished and unexceptionable as i\Ir. 
Densdeth.’ And, indeed, there came presently 
a letter from you to that effect. It was you, — 
style, hand, everything, even to the most delicate 
characteristic expressions. How could I suspect 
my own father of so base a forgery ? Then came 
another, sterner ; and then another, in which you 
disowned and cast me off finally. Unless I should 
consent. That crushed my heart. That almost 
broke down my power of resistance.” 

“ My poor child ! my dear child ! ” Churin al- 
most moaned ; and I was not here to help ! ” 

“ I might have yielded for pure forlornness 
and despair,” Dreeme went on, “ when there was 
suddenly revealed to me, by a flash of insight, a 
crime, a treason, and a sin, which changed my 
repugnance for that guilty man, now dead, into 
utter abhorrence and loathing. Do not ask mo 
what ! ” 

We need not ask. All divined. And now, 
in the presence of these two who had warned 
me, their neglected cautions rushed back upon 
my mind. All were silent a moment, while 
Cliurm’s bays bowled us merrily over the frost- 
Btiffened road, — merrily as if we were driving 


CECIL DREEME. 


34] 


from a rural wedding to the city festival in iu 
honor. 

‘‘ When this sad sin and shame flashed upon 
me,” said Dreeme, “ I did not wait one moment 
to let the edge of my horror dull. I sent for 
Densdeth. Was that unwomanly, my father?” 

Unwomanly, my child ! It was heroic ! ” 

I sent for him. I faced him there under my 
father’s roof, which he liad so dishonored. For 
tiiat moment my fear of him was vanished. I 
said to him but a few words. God’s angel in 
my breast spoke for me.” 

God’s angel was speaking now in Dreeme’s 
words. With the remembrance of that terrible 
interview, — that battle of purity against foul- 
ness, — his low deep voice rang like a prophet’s, 
that curses for God. 

But the man was not touched,” continued 
the same solemn voice. ‘‘ Strange power of sin 
to deaden the soul ! He was not touched. No 
shudder at his sacrilege ! No great heart-break- 
ing pang of self-loathing ! He answered my 
giant agony with compliments. ‘ A wonderful 
actress,’ he said, ‘ I was. It was sublime,’ ho 
said, ‘ to see me so wrought up. The sight of 
such emotion would be cheaply bought witli any 
villany ’ ; and he bowed and smiled and played 
with his watch-chain.” 

Dreeme’s voice, as he repeated these phrases, 


342 


CECIL DREEME. 


had unconsciously adopted tlie soft, sneering tone 
of their speaker. It was as if Deiisdelh were 
called back, and sitting by our side. 

“ Forget that man, if man he were, Cecil,^’ 
I breathed, with a shiver. Let his harm to us 
die with him ! Let his memory be an unopened 
coffin in a ruined and abandoned vault ! ” 

“ Ah Robert ! his harm is not yet wholly dead ; 
nor are the souls he poisoned cured. The days 
of all a lifetime cannot heap up forgetfulness 
enough to bury the thought of him. He must 
lie in our hearts and breed nightshade.” 

“ It was after this interview, I suppose,” said 
Churm, ‘‘ that the thought of flight came to 
you.” 

“ The passion — the frenzy — of those terrible 
moments flung me into a fever. I went to my 
room, fell upon my bed, and passed into a half- 
unconscious state. I was aware of my father’s 
coming in, and muttering to himself : ‘ Illness 
will do her good. This wicked obstinacy must 
break down, — yes, must break down.’ I was 
aware of my sister looking at me from the door, 
with a pale, hard face, and then turning and 
leaving me to myself. While I lay there in 
a half-trance, with old fancies drifting through 
my mind, I remembered how but yesterday, in 
passing Chrysalis, I had marked the notice of 
studios to let, and how I had longed that I were 


CECIL DREEME. 


343 


somo forgotten orphan, living there, and paint- 
ing for my bread.” 

“ They never told me, Cecil,” said I, “ that 
you had been an artist.” 

‘‘ I had not been, in any ripe sense, an artist. 
No amateur can be. I was a diligent observer, 
a conscientious student, a laborious plodder. I 
had not been baptized by sorrow and necessity. 
Power, if I have it, came to me with pangs.” 

‘‘ That is the old story,” said I. “ Genius is 
quickened, if not created, by throes of anguish in 
the soul.” 

“ Such is the history of my force. Well, as I 
said, that fancy of an artist’s life in Chrysalis 
came back to me. It grew all day, and as my 
\ fever lieightened, — for they left me alone, except 
that the family physician came in, and said, 

‘ Slight fever, — let her sleep it off ! ’ — as the 
fever heightened, and I became light-headed, the 
fancy developed in my mind. It was a mad 
scheme. In a sane moment I should not have 
ventured it. But all the while something was 
whispering me, ‘Fly this house: its air is pollu- 
tion ! ’ Night came. I rose cautiously. How 
well I remember it all ! — my tremors at every 
sound, my groping in the dark, my confidence 
in my purpose, my throbs of delirious joy at 
the hope of escape, — howl laughed to myself, 
when I found I had money enough for many 


844 


CECIL DREEME. 


months, — ^ how I dressed myself in a suit of 
clothes I had worn as the lover in a little domes- 
tic drama we played at home in happier days ! 

Do not think me unwomanly for this disguise.” 

“ Unwomanly, my child ! ” said Churm. ‘‘ It 
was the triumph of womanhood over womanish- 
ness ! ” 

“ I wrapped myself,” Dreeme continued, in 
a cloak, part of that forgotten costume ; I stole 
down the great staircase, half timorous, half 
bold, all desperate. I looked into the parlors. 
They were brilliantly lighted. In the distant 
mirror, at the rear, I could see the image of my 
sister, sitting alone, and, as I thought, drooping 
and weary. Ah, how I longed to fling myself 
into her arms, and pray her to weep with me ! 
But I knew that she would turn away lightly 
and with scorn. I shrank back for fear of de- 
tection. You know that draped statue in the 
hall?” 

“ I know it,” replied I, remembering what 
misery of my heart it had beheld, in its marble j 
calm. j 

‘‘ In my fevered imagination it took ghostlj' l 
life. It seemed to become the shadow of myself, 
and I paused an instant to charge it to watch 
over those wlio drove me forth, — to be a holy 
monitor in that ill-doing house It was marble, 
and they could not liarm it.” 


I 


CECI1< DREEME. 


345 


Tliat statue has seemed to me your presence 
tliere,” I said, “ and a sorrowful watcher.” 

I could not continue, and describe that fatal 
interview of last night. I was silent, and in a 
moment Cecil Dreeme went on. 

“ The rest you mostly know. You know how 
my rash venture succeeded from its very rash- 
ness. I won Locksley. The poor fellow had had 
ti’oubles of his own, and I felt that I was safe 
with him, even if he discovered my secret. He 
gossiped to me innocently of my own disappear- 
ance, and how they were searching for me far 
and wide ; but never within a stone’s throw of 
my home.” 

“ It was an inspiration,” said I, “ your con- 
cealment there, — such a plan as only genius 
devises.” 

‘‘ A mad scheme ! ” Dreeme said, musingly. 

1 hardly deem myself responsible for it. And 
who can yet say whether it was well and wisely 
done ? ” 

Well and wisely ! ” said Churm. “ You are 
saved, and the tempter is dead.” 

“ Ah ! ” Dreeme sighed, “ what desolate days 
I passed in my prison in Chrysalis ! I felt like 
one dead, as the world supposed me, — like one 
murdered, — one walled up in a living grave; 
and I gave myself no thought of ever emerging 
into life again. Why sliould I love daylight ? 

15 * 


346 


CECIL DREEME. 


What was there for me there ? Only treachery 
Who ? Only traitors. I had no one in the world 
to trust. 1 dwelt alone with God.” 

Drccmc paused. The tears stood in those 
brave, steady eyes. How utterly desolate indeed 
had been the fate of this noble soul ! How dark 
in the chill days of winter ! How lonely in his 
bleak den in Chrysalis ! Stern lessons befall tlie 
strong. 

“ Painting my Lear kept me alive, with a mor- 
bid life. It was my own tragedy, Robert. I am 
the Cordelia. When vou did not recognize mv 
father and sister on that canvas, I felt that my- 
self was safe from your detection.” 

“ How blind I have been ! ” I exclaimed ; 
“ and now that I recall the picture, I perceive 
those veiled likenesses, and wonder at my d ill- 
ness.” 

Not veiled from me,” said Churm. “ You 
saw me recognize them, Bvng. Ah, my child ! 
how bitter it is to think of you there pining away 
alone, and I under the same roof, saddening my 
heart with sorrow for your loss ! ” 

‘‘Yes, my father; but how much bitterer for 
me, who had loved and trusted you like a 
daughter, to believe that you were as cruel a 
traitor as the rest, — that you too would betray 
me in a moment. So I lived there alone, putting 
my agony into my picture. There was a strange 


CECIL DREEME. 


347 


relief in so punisliing, as it were, the guilty. And 
when I had punished them, I forgave them. The 
rancor, if rancor there were, had gone out of me. 
I was ready for kindlier influences. They did 
not come. I could not seek them. I was no 
longer sustained by the vigor of my revolt. My 
days grew inexpressibly dreary. The life was 
wearing. And then I was starving for all that 
my dear friend and preserver, Mr. Byng, has 
given me, — starving to death, Robert ; and there 
I should have died alone but for you. I know 
you as my old playmate from the first moment.” 

I pressed her hand. It is a touching his- 
tory,” I said, ‘‘ bat strange to me still, — strange 
as a dream.” 

“ Yes, and my name, when I abandon it, will 
make the whole seem dreamier. My name was 
a sudden fancy, in reply to Locksloy’s query, 
what he should call me. Cecil ; I did not 
quite give up my womanhood, as Cecil. And 
Dreeme, — it occurred to me that, if ever in life 
I should escape danger and be at peace, my pres- 
ent episode of disguise and concealment would 
be recalled by me only as a dream. And from 
such a fancy, half metaphysical, half mere girl- 
ishness, I named myself. My danger must ex- 
cuse the alias.” 

A girlish fancy ! Every moment it came to me 
more distinctly that Cecil Dreeme and J could 


348 


CECIL DREEME. 


never be Damon and Pythias again. Ignorant!) 
I had loved my friend as one loves a womai 
only. Tliis was love, — unforced, self-created, 
undoubting, complete. And now that the friend 
proved a woman, a great gulf opened between us. 
And as in my first interview with Emma Den- 
man, I had fancied that form in the mirror the 
spirit of her sister regarding us, now again 1 
seemed to see, projected against a lurid future, 
a slight, elegant figure in deep mourning, watch- 
ing me, now with a baleful, now Avith a pleading 
look. 

Thinking thus, I let fall Cecil’s hand, and drew 
apart a little. Meantime Churm’s bays whirled 
us merrily over the frozen turnpike, through tlie 
brisk air of that March evening. We might, for 
all the passers kncAV, have left a warm and kindly 
fireside, and now were speeding back to our own 
cheerful homes, talking as we went of rural hos- 
pitality, and hoAV wealthy Avith content was life 
in a calm old country-house. 

But thinking of Avhat might start up betAveen 
Cecil Dreeme and me, and part us, I let fall 
the hand I held. 

“ No, Robert ! ” said Cecil, reaching out that 
slight hand again, and taking mine. “ I can- 
not let my friend go. You were dear and 
true to me AAdien I Avas alone. Do net punish 
me, that I was acting an unAvilling deceit Avith 


CECIL DKEEME. 


349 


you. ' I longed to give you all my confidence 
But how could I ? ” 

How could she, indeed ? To me, of all other 
men, how could she ? To me, the friend of her 
father, the comrade of Densdcth, the disciple 
of Churm, perhaps tlie lover of her sister, the 
ally of all whose perfidy had wronged her, — 
how could she offer to me the confidence that 
would compel me to choose between her and 
them ? How could she, alone in that solitude 
of Chrysalis, cover her face with her hands and 
whisper, — “Robert, I am a woman!” 

“ Now, my child,” said Churm, “ we strike the 
pavements in a few moments. The bays will 
give me my hands full in the crowded streets, 
and across the ferry. Tell us how you came 
at last into Densdeth’s power.” 

“ You remember my terror, Robert, when at 
last I encountered that evil spirit again. Ho 
knew me. He must have watched Chrysalis, 
and seen me enter with you. Last night you 
did not come. I went out alone, not without 
some trepidation, to take my walk. By and by 
I perceived a carriage following me. I turned 
into a side street. It drove up. Densdeth’s 
black servant — that Afreet creature — sprang 
out with another person. They dragged me 
into the carriage, and smothered my screams.” 

“ 0 Cecil,” 1 cried, “ if I could have saved 
yov this ! ” 


CECIL DREEME. 


850 


No wonder that Densdetli smiled triumphant 
in the corridor of the opera, — smiled in double 
triumph over mo ! 

“ I had no fears, Robert. I felt that you 
would miss me. I hoped that you would trace 
mo At the ferry Densdetli got into the carriage. 
He treated me simply as an insane person, and 
was gentle enough. I do not think he had given 
up tlie thought tlmt he could master my mind, 
— that he could weary out my moral force, and 
triumph over me liy dint of sheer devilishness. 
He left me in peace last night. He had but 
just entered to-day, and began to address me 
quietly, as if I were in my father’s parlor, and 
he were again my allowed suitor, when the 
woman burst in with the news of a hostile arrival. 
Ho ran out, and presently I heard that dreadful 
scream of exultation and despair. There seemed 
to me two voices mingled, — the cry of a mock 
iiig fiend baffled, and the shout of a rebel slave.” 

“ It was so,” said Churm. “ How calmly you 
speak of all this, my child ! ” 

“ It is the life of Cecil Dreeme, and fast be- 
coming merely historic to me, passing away into 
my dark ages. These will be scenes never to 
be forgotten, but never recalled. And now, 
a word of my father. Will the shame he feared 
come upon him at last ? ” 

“ It may not. Only Densdetli knew the crime. 


CECIL DREEm 


351 


But Deiisdeth gone, poverty and sudden defeat 
of all Ills ambitious schemes must befall him.” 

“ Better so ! Poverty, shame even, are better 
for the soul than a life that is a lie. Only 
harsh treatment will teach a nature like my 
father’s the sin of sin. Poor and ashamed, he 
will learn to prize my love.” 

“You can love him still, Cecil, — so cruel, 
so base ? ” I asked. 

“ Love does not alter for any error of its 
object.” 

“ Error ? I name it guilt, sacrilege ! ” 

“ Justice tells me that he must suffer. To 
every sin is appointed its own misery. An in- 
evitable penalty announces the broken law. The 
misery is the atonement for the sin. I sorrow 
for the sufferer. Not that he suffers, — but 
that he should have sinned. The hery pangs 
will burn away the taint, and leave the soul 
as white and pure as any most unsullied.” 

“ Cecil,” said I, after a silence, “ you do not 
ask of your sister.” 

“ No,” she said, turning from me. She would 
have withdrawn her hand. I held it closer than 
before. 


CHAPTER XXX. 


DENSDETH’S DARK ROOM. 

We were now upon the pavements. Conver 
Bation ceased. The broad facts had been stated 
The myriad details must wait for quieter hours. 
We were grave and expectant, for in the mind 
of each was an unspoken dread that all our sor- 
row was not over. 

Churm drove hard. It was chilly sunset, a 
melancholy lurid twilight of March, when we 
turned out of Mannering Place and drew up in 
front of Chrysalis. Alternate thaw and freezing 
had fouled the snow in Ailanthus Square. It 
lay in patches, streaked with dirt of the city, 
and between was the sodden grass, all trampled 
uneven and stiffening now with the evening frost. 

“ The world never looked so dreary,” said I. 

This is the very end of bitter winter,” said 
Cecil ; ‘‘ let us hope now for brighter spring at 
hand. We will create it in ourselves.” 

Yes,” said Churm, whistling for his groo n. 
“We must not let forlornness come upon us 


358 


CECIL DREEME. 

now, after this great mercy of my child’s return. 
Byiig, you had better take your friend Cecil 
Dreeme up to your palace-chamber, while I gc 
round to the Miuedurt, with Locksley, and have 
diiiner brought. We all need it, after the drive 
and the day.” 

Dreeme and I climbed the broad staircase. 
Wq walked those few steps along the corridor to 
my door. It was almost dusk. As we passed 
the door of Densdeth’s dark room, each was coi 
scions anew how death had freed the world frc 
that demon influence. We seemed to breathe 
freer. 

We entered my great chamber. It was already 
sombre with the shades of evening. Only a dim 
light came through the miillioncd and trcfoiled 
windows. I established my guest in an arm- 
chair. She dropped the hood of her cloak. I 
smiled to notice the masculine effect of her crisp 
curling black hair. She perceived my feeling, 
and smiled also. A quiet domestic feeling seemed 
to grow up between us. I busied myself in 
reviving the fire from its ashes. 

Cecil sat silent. Neither was yet at home in 
our new relation. I made occupation, to fill a 
silence I shrank from breaking with words, by 
examining the letter-box at my door. 

There was the evening paper in the box. To- 
morrow it would be filled with staring capitals. 


w 


CECIL DREEME. 


and all this sorry business of the execution of 
Densdeth and the exposing of Huffmire. 

There were sundry cards in the box ; cards of 
lounging men about town, who had come to kill 
a half-hour at my expense ; a card from a friend 
of Stillfleet’s from Boston, asking permission tc 
recover his dress coat and waistcoat, deposited in 
some drawer of Rubbish Palace when he came 
last a-wooing ; a card from Madame de Nigaud, 
with — “ Oysters and Frezzaniga at ten. Come, 
or I cut you ! ” — cards to the balls after Lent ; a 
tailor’s bill ; a club notice ; a ticket for a private 
view of Sion’s new statue of Purity. 

There was also a billet addressed to me in a 
hand I seemed to know. 

“ There is what the world had to say to me 
this afternoon,” I said, handing the cards to Cecil 
Dreeme. 

I walked toward the window for more light to 
ead my billet ; also to hide my face while 1 read. 
For I knew the hand of the address. 

It was Emma Denman’s. 

It cost me a strong effort to tear open that 
slight missive. I knew not what I dreaded ; but 
I was aware of a miserable terror, lest the sister 
sliould come between me and Cecil Dreeme, 
blighting both. 

So I opened the letter, and began to read it ' 
with hastj' intentiicss, by that dim light tliroiigl 


CECIL DKEEME. 


355 


the narrow windows. Presently, as I divined its 
inner meaning, and anticipated some sorrowful, 
some pitiful confession at the close, I read more 
slowly, not to lose the significance of a word. 
The light faded rapidly, and each syllable was 
harder to decipher ; and yet each, as I compre- 
hended it, seemed to trail away and write itself 
anew on the dimness before me, in ineffaceable 
letters of fire. 

This was the letter. 

“ Robert, good-bye ! I could not see you face 
to face again, — I that have almost betrayed you 
witli my sin. 

But you shall be safe from any further treach- 
ery of mine, and for the deep dread I have of 
myself, lest I again become a traitor to some 
trusting soul, I shall put any further evil work in 
this world out of my power. 

“I tried — God knows I tried for myself and 
you — to keep away from between us any other 
sentiment than liking and simple good-will. But 
I could not withhold myself from loving you. 
It was my destiny first to be taught what love 
meant through you, and so to learn that I must 
never hope for love — for true love — in -this 
waste misery of my ruined earthly life. I could 
not clieck you from loving me with that hesitat- 
ing love you have given. I knew, 0 Robert ! 1 


35o 


CECIL DREEME. 


knew why you could not love me with frank 
ahandonment. I felt the want in myself you 
dimly and far away perceived. 1 was conscious 
in my whole being of the taint that repealed you. 

And yet sometimes — forgive me, for I hate 
myself, I loathe myself — I was willing to accept 
the success of my lie, my acted lie. I knew my 
power over you, and saw that it was grcMter 
because you had a doubt to overcome. Alas for 
me for such dishonor ! But I yielded to the 
sweet delusion that I could repair the past, that 
by future truth to you I could annihilate the 
falsehood in me, upon which any love of yours 
must be based. 

“And then, too, Robert, — for such is the 
cruel despotism of deceit, — I liave found a base 
joy in my power to cliarm you, so that you for- 
got everything in my society. I have even felt 
a baser pleasure in keeping higher and holier 
aspirations away from your soul, lest you should 
become top sensitive, and so know me too well. 
Ah, how terrible is this corruption of a hidden 
sin ! It has made me the foe of purity, eager to 
drag others down to my level. 

“And yet I have agonized against it. More 
steadily, Robert, since you came. Why did you 
not come years ago ? Why were you ever away ? 
I do not feel my nature wholly base. It seems 
to me that I might have been noble, if I had been 


357 


CECIL DREEME. 

guarded better in the innocent days. But I will 
be guarded, self-guarded, when this life I loathe 
is past, and thai other life begun, with all my 
stern experience. 

‘‘ You will not despise me. I know that it is 
braver to speak than to be silent ; and then this 
struggle to be true with you helps me in the 
greater struggle to be true with God. Do not 
despise me, Robert ! I saw what was in your 
mind when we parted. It is so. I might deceive 
you now. I might trifle away your suspicions ; 
I might repel them with indignation. I will not. 
They are just. 

“ It is said. I shall die happier. I must die. 
I cannot trust myself. I cannot bear to act my 
daily lie before the world. I miglit again deceive, 
and again see the same misery in another I 
have seen in you, — again see a look of love 
grow cold, — again see doubt creep in and mur- 
der faith. I cannot trust myself. 1 might love 
you with all my heart, and yet go miserably 
yielding to a temptation. And so good-bye to 
my life, and all my womanly hopes ! 

“ Ah Robert, if I could but have escaped that 
prying spirit of evil, — that one fatal being who 
mastered me with the first look, who saw the 
small germ of a bad tendency in me, and nur- 
tured it ! 

“ But do not believe that I was to be so base 


358 


CECIL DREEME. 

as it may seem to my sister. I did not love hei 
ever. Her nature was a constant reproach to 
mine. But I should have saved her from the 
infamy of her marriage. I should, — 0 yes ! T 
thank God that I had emancipated myself enough 
for that. I should have saved her ; but while 
I was struggling with my dread of shame, my 
pride, and all the misery of an avowal, — while I 
was weeping and praying, and gaining strength 
to be as sisterly as I could be so late, — she was 
drowning ! And so her sweet, innocent life per- 
ished, and the fault was mine, — the fault was 
mine, that I had not long before told her such 
a marriage would be sacrilege. 

I liave had a bitter burden to bear since then, 
--a wearing weight of repentance. Ah! if my 
sister could have lived, I might have shown her 
tliat I was worthy of her love. I might have 
wrouglit her to forget those years of alienation, 
— all my fault, and never fault of hers, — my 
noble, liapless sister ! A heavy burden of shame 
and self-disgTist 1 And heavier, heavier, since 
you came ; — heavier, because, as I have learned 
to know what true love means, and to despair of 
ever being worthy of it, the reaction of hopeless- 
ness has almost driven me to utter self-abandon- 
ment. and that miserable comfort of recklessness. 
And so I die, lest I might fail my nobler nature, 
and pass into the ranks of the tempters. 


CECIL DREEME. 


3^5 


“ My father will not miss me. You will think 
pityingly of me, Robert. It is not for a dread 
of a lonely and sorrowful life that 1 die, ])ut to 
save others from the contamination of my sin. 

I shall not sully this innocent roof with my 
death. I die in a place where I have the riglit 
to enter. My death there shall atone for my 
crime there. It is near you, Robert, and I could 
wish, if you can forgive and pity me, that you 
first would find mo, in. the dark room next to 
yours, and be a little tender with the corpse m3; 
purified spirit will have abandoned. Good-bye ! 

“ Emma Denman ” 

“ Oh, Cecil ! ” I cried, your sister ! ” 

I sprang toward the door of my lumber-room. 
Beside it stood a suit of ancient armor, staring 
with eyeless e3"es, and in its iron fingers it held 
a heavy mace of steel,— a terrible weapon, with 
its head studded with spikes, and rusty with old 
stains, perhaps of Paynim blood. I snatched it, 
drew my bolts, and smote with all my force at the 
inner lock of the door of Densdeth’s dark room. 

A few such blows, the fastenings tore awa}", 
and the door flung open. I entered, and Cecil 
Dreeme was at my side. 

It was a small room, but lofty as mine. By 
that faint light of impeded twilight, coming 
tlirougb my narrow windows, I coidd see that 
its furniture was a very dream of luxiuy. 


300 CECIL DREEME. 

% 

But it was not the place that we noticed,— 
for there in the dimness we could discern the 
figure of a woman, seated in an arm-chair, gazing 
at us with a pale, dead face. 

Emma, Emma ! ’’ cried Cecil Dreeme. 

She did not speak, — that dead form had given 
up its last words in the letter to me. The sickly 
odor of a deadly drug filled the room, mingling 
with the perfume I had noticed. She seemed to 
have been some hours dead, and sitting there 
alone, unforgiven by man. 

We stood looking at her. It was pitiful. Her 
beauty wasted thus ! Her life self-condemned to 
this drear death, lest her soul perish with the 
taint of sin ! 

I kissed her forehead ; then pressed my lips 
chilled to Cecil’s cheek. 

She is our sister, Cecil,” I whispered. 

“ Our sister, Robert, — our sister, forgiven and 
beloved.” 

And so with clasped hands we knelt beside our 
sister, and in silence prayed for strength in the 
great battle with sin and sorrow, through the 
solemn days of our life together. 


THE END. 





s 


The Leisure Hour Seri 


A collection of works whose character is lip^ht and entertaining, 
though not trivial. While they are handy for the pocket or th^ sachel, 
they are not, either in contents or appearance, unworthy of a 
the library shelves. 16mo, cloth. 

$1.00 PER VOLUME. 


VOLUMES PUBLISHED, 




ABOUT, E. 

The man with the Bro- 
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The Notary’s Nose. 

ALCESTIS. A Musical 
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ALEXANDER, Mrs. 

The Wooing O’t. 

Which Shall it Be? 
Ralph Wilton’s Weird. 
Her Dearest fof_ 
Heritage of langda'le. 
Maid, Wife, or widow? 
The Ereres. 

AUERBACH, B. 

The Villa on the Rhine, 
2 vols. ivith Portrait. 

Black forest Village 
Stories. 

The little baref^ 

Joseph in the Sno" 
Edelweiss. 

German tales. 

On THE Heights, 

The convicts. 

Lorley and reini^ 
Aloys. 

Poet and MERcnyiC^ 
Landolin. n: 

Waldfried. 

Brigitta. 

BEERBOHM, .Qi 

Wanderings in Pa^ ^ 

BEERS, HENI^^ 

A CENTURY OF A Ti.' 
Literature. 

BJORNSON, 

The Hisher-Maidi^;v 

BUTT, B. M. 

miss Molly. 

FUGENIE. 

Dei.icia. 

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Ida craven. 

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Card Fssays, (day’s Decisions 
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Count Kostia. 

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BESSIE Lang. 

CRAVEN, Mme. A. 

Fleurange. 

DEMOCRACY. A Neto 
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DICKENS, CHAS, 

The Mudfog Papers, etc. 

DREW, Catharine. 

the Lutaniste of St. 
Jacobi’s. 


DROZ, GUSTAVE. 

Babolain. 

Around a Spring. 

ERSKINE, Mrs. T. 

Wyncote. 

FOTHERGILL, JES- 
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the First Violin. 
Probation. 

The Wellfields. 

ONE of Three, 
kith and kin. 

FRANCILLON, R.E. 

Under^Slieve-Ban. 

FREYTAG, G. 

INGO. r 
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GAUTIER. T. 

Captain Fracasse. Illus. 


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NC RRIS, W. E. 

Matrimony. 
PALGRAVE, W. 
Hermann Agha. 

PARR, LOUISA. 

Hero Carthew. 

PLAYS FOR PRI- 
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POYNTER, E. F. 

My Little Lady 
Ersilia. 

Among the Hills. 

RICHARDSON, S. 

Clarissa Hari.owe, (Con- 
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RICHTER, J. P. r. 

klower.Fkuit.and Thorn 


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Who Breaks— Pays. 
Skirmishing. ^ 

A Psyche of-T'o-Day 
Madame df: B^yfi PRE 
Jupiter’s Daughtf:rs. 
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JOHNSON, Rossiter. 
Play-Day Poems. 
LAFFAN, MAY. 

The Hon Miss Ferrard. 
Christy Carew. 
McGRATH, T. 
Pictures from Ireland. 
MAJENDIE,Lady M. 
Giannetto. 

Dita. 

maxwell. CECIL. 

A Story of three sisters. 

MOLESWORTH.Mrs 

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S rORM. 


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J. 

W.^SSEJ. 

F. C. 

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>ir.w. M. 

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In Change Unchanged. 

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Mr. Smith. 

P-aulinf;. 

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troublesome Daughters. 
DICK N'etherby. 

WINTHROP, THEO. 

Cecil Dreeme, v>. Portrait. 
Canoe and Saddle. 

JOHN Brent. 

Edwin Brothertoft. 

Life in the Open Air. 

WYLDE, Katharine. 

A Dreamer. 



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